Emma Dilemma

What Type of Bitch Are You?

Emma Dinzebach — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 21:24:00 GMT

Ode to our nation's capital. Home to...um, Congress, Wale... Hm, this is a harder line than I thought. Oh, POTUS, FLOTUS and the little ones. And Air Force One! And some of our nation's brightest young third graders who contrived the funniest little list of "Types of Bitches." That's right, bitches. There are 90 types. And 90 makes for a long list people. I have trouble naming 90 friends, 90 designers, 90 foods I like, 90 ways I love Mia; and those things are important. So I don't know how these youngsters came up with 90 bitches. But they did.

Coincidently, the first bitch category I fall into is my favorite number! 19! (You should really know that by now people.) I also have a tendency to be 26-29 - usually at the same time. Sometimes, like right now for instance, I'm a 37. My best friend is also a 19, which is why we talk on the phone like ten times a day. She's been known to be a 69 on occasion. My brother is a 40, and his girlfriend is a 25. Omg I know so many number 12 bitches! I don't get number 62. And if you know a 75, send 'em my way. Maybe I should use this to categorize my dates.

I don't want to overload your short term memory, again, I'm 19, 26-29, and once in a while a 37. And I'm not lying.

http://andiamnotlying.com/2010/types-of-bitches/

It Was Only A Kiss, It Was Only A Kiss

Emma Dinzebach — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 16:34:00 GMT

The other weekend I accidentally kissed my friend. Well, to be clear, he kissed me- a bold move that I didn't see coming what with his sassy, unfettered charm that rivals John Wilkes. In his tow you're sure to find a flock of Levi 511-fiending women; and I thought said female trail rendered me safe from the wrath of his lusty stronghold. But hmf, not so much. Always one to admit my often erroneous thoughts, I was admittedly wrong here on two accounts: (1) I erroneously thought he would be able to ~~resist~~ restrain himself if for no other reason than that he hates snarky publicity. (Don't worry, I'm not ruining a friendship here. He offered up his John Hancock the second he pressed his sexy lips to mine.) and (2) I erroneously imagined two attractive, unattached, straight people of the opposite sex could be just friends. Months of opportunity lost; what changed his mind? Why this time? Maybe it was my magic headband. Maybe it was his lucky Levis 511s. Last night the DJ did not save my life. I blame it on the dancefloor. I blame it on the Goose. Or maybe I'm just genetically wired for men like a chubby kid in a candy store. And if the pied piper wears ice skates, then I'm utterly beyond.

I always have this issue with guy friends - probably every girl does. You accidentally kiss and have to have a "talk" about it, which I'm obviously not a fan of otherwise it's awkward. But, and here in lies el problemo, it's really not an emotional issue for me. I can kiss you and move on. The next week you can fall in love. Hell, I will happily throw you an engagement party when you choose to tie the knot. Maybe I'm an anomaly among women, but I'll be totally, completely, fully, utterly, undoubtedly fine. (And many of my guy friends - you know who you are - can attest to this.) Not only am I fine, but you can call me and (if I answer) I'll listen to your relationship problems. I'll go to charity media events with your girlfriend. I'll have a beer with you and your work friends. Or you'll have a beer. I'll have champagne, thank you. Even with true ex-boyfriends - they are exes for a reason; and I'm happy if they find someone who they really like...just as long as I'm prettier and smarter. Duh. That's called self-esteem, people. I didn't go through years of training to be a jealous friend, a jealous ex or a jealous anything. I have heaps of srsly sticky flaws, but jealousy is not one of them.

Unfortunately, most human beings lack the self-esteem (however laboriously earned) I possess. So what happens next weekend when we go out? I already love him to death or we wouldn't be friends. I already think he's super handsome and smart and funny and has a nice ass or again, we wouldn't be friends. But I'm not his girlfriend and you can bet your vintage crocodile Birkin, that my attention will be diverted. Skates or no skates. Levis or no Levis. Something will lure me... or it won't and I'll totally act like your girlfriend, leaving a trail of crumpled, mixed messages. And for that I apologize because when it comes to the opposite sex, I'm a bit like a dude. After dealing with them for so long, some dude-ness was bound to get caught in my frills. Coupled with being city jaded, I'm dangerously close to a dating schizophrenia diagnosis.

But I'm not that far gone. I'm not that jaded by New York's dating anxieties. I know apathy does not make a good story, a fun personality or an interesting life. My awkward friend/foe kissing episodes and increasingly impressive ability to breakdown every and any male-centric situation is a gift that I will continue to use even after the cosmos align. Who says they have to be awkward? Embrace the unknown!

So to all of the friends I have kissed, will kiss, and should have kissed before we lost touch: Exhale. Kissing, despite whatever popular belief wants us to think, is a first step on the road to possibility. It sustains our ability to believe in love - in any capacity. (I love Mia and I kiss her all the time!) Embrace the kiss and you will be able to feel as comfortable around me as I feel around you.

The Loathe List

Emma Dinzebach — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 17:15:00 GMT

I have a whole list of dating hates that aren’t necessarily dealbreakers but traits I utterly loathe. For the sake of time, space and verbosity, they're in concise list form. Drum roll please:

The Loathe List:

1) Exclamation marks - at all, but especially in excess. The worst is when you think a guy is cool. You like him and are kind of in that intimidated awe stage, which wears out really quickly but is so good while it lasts. Then you follow him on Twitter or friend him on Facebook and like a bloody train wreck hundreds of exclamation marks stare back at you. And you ask yourself, “Is someone truly cool ever that openly enthused?” Consider some ultra cool men - Clint Eastwood, James Dean, A-Trak, Kid Rock, George Clooney. Would they use exclamation marks? Heavens no...and neither should a dude you date.

2) Running shoes with jeans. Running and cross training shoes are for athletics, not Sunday brunch. Do not wear them with denim unless you prefer your footwear coated in vomit because that combination makes. people. gag.

3) Ill-fitting underwear. You know that dude with the running shoes and jeans? Well, you can bet your Balenciaga that when he takes off those jeans it’s far from Beckham for Armani. (See also: Jamie Dornan for Calvin Klein.) What you will find are really loose, ill-fitted, wrinkled, rumpled, and faded boxers from Banana Republic circa 2002 decorated with little monkeys or firetrucks. Need I say more? And you wonder why I date Eurotrash.

4) Discussing dollars. My mom says I have an aversion to any money discussion, but really, I just don’t want to know your business. It’s unattractive. I don’t want to know that buying a boat made you have to reel in the spending for the next two months; and newsflash, I can figure that out on my own. Your bills, bank statements, saving method, financing, yadda, yadda, yadda are not my business unless we aim to merge our lives in which case I need to know everything.

5) When they call me baby. If you are not my boyfriend, then I am not your baby. Each time you call me “baby” a part of me dies inside.

Originally written for The Daily Vogue: http://thevoguecity.com/dont-call-me-baby

Emma Dinzebach

The Pursuit of Happy Hips

Emma Dinzebach — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 16:15:00 GMT

Since I have been creating my masterpiece, I have been so incredibly exhausted of guys that I can't even fathom going on a date and having to listen to their work issues, car problems and blah, blah, blah. I know it sounds bitchy, egocentric, whiny, and probably a whole slew of other adjectives I'll leave to your pretty little imaginations. As obnoxious as the reasons for my current aversion to dating may seem, they are true. Verdad. Pravda. You get it.

Just to clarify, this doesn't mean I'm in like a dry spell or anything. I'm just choosing to date people who are perfectly fine being kept at an arm's length and do not expect any more from me. Don't call me if you're sick. Don't think I can help you write the copy for your new social media proposal. Don't ask me who my dog's vet is. At the end of the day, I have nothing left to give. So rewind to yesterday when I poked my head out of the fit station and caught a glimpse of a very attractive guy; and since my new thing is only dating hot guys (but I never seeeeeee any!), I thought I could make an exception. I'm not one for sticking with rules anyway. We stared at each other for a second until I felt my face blush, realized I was overheating and retreated to help his sisters try on some groove pants. Oh, but I didn't know they were his sisters at that point, so when he turned the corner to give his consultation I was like, Awwww this is such a cute family affair! Then I thought, Say something. No because what are you going to say? They are probably from out of town anyway, so just say something. Oh but now it will sound forced because I've thought about it too long. But then I thought, Do one thing a day that scares you! and said in the general direction of said guy and his madre, "So are you visiting from out of town?"

"Yeah, we are...from Colorado. Well, we are," she said motioning towards her daughters fitting rooms, "He lives here."

"Oh you live here?"

"Yeah, well I'm in med school at Georgetown..." Now I immediately thought, This guy is too young for me, but he is really super attractive and obviously smart and from Colorado, which is kind of cool and although I'm wearing a red 'I heart hockey' shirt and might have felt like I was going to die when I woke up this morning, I have on cool leggings and my hair looks shiny. Plus this is the part I'm so good at.

"Where do you live?" I asked.

"Glover Park," he said.

"Where?" I said, aiming to estimate exactly how many miles away from me he lives.

"Um, Glover Park..."

"No, I mean like which streets? What's your address?" I said, joking. I was joking, people. Then he answered with his streets, and I told him where I live and that a lot of medical students live in my neighborhood, but I'm pretty antisocial with them. Maybe I should change that, but I don't have time because when I'm supposed to be writing my book, apparel column and several invoices, I'm writing on my blog instead. (Sidenote: I think I've had a bit too much coffee this morning because I'm typing like superhero fast.) Then because he was really handsome, and like I said, I don't see very many truly handsome guys, I started to ramble about this yoga for athletes video called The Pursuit of Happy Hips. Who says that? Let me repeat: I suggested a video entitled The Pursuit of Happy Hips. I'm so embarrassed. He was just staring at me like, "What the fuck is this girl talking about?" But then he wasn't. I told him about the complimentary yoga classes and strongly encouraged him to come because I want to see him again. Duh. We talked about running. He is a triathlon club (Why have I been meeting so many triathletes lately?), which means he won't be joining my running club, but maybe if I actually start braving the elements I will run into him. Stupid pun.

He said he was studying orthopedics, which is pretty much my dream come true because I actually really am in pursuit of happy hips, and that he would eventually like to move back to Colorado. "So do you want to work with athletes?" I asked.

"Yeah, definitely. I would like to stay on that track."

"So you could be the doctor for the Avalanche!" I said, slightly obsessed with the way my brain provided an impeccable image of Joe Sakic. He has such nice hair.

"Yeah or a ski team. My family friend is the doctor for the Olympic ski team and travels with them. It's a pretty amazing job." In my head I'm thinking, Um, not as amazing buddy. So anyway, this story ends poorly because his sister chose a pair of pants, and they left. Just before my friends said, "Go give him your number!" But there was not a chance in hell I was brave enough to do that because he was a bit shy-ish, and you know when other people are shy-ish it makes you shy-ish even if you aren't shy-ish at all? That was going on. But hopefully he will come to yoga or at least come back to buy In Pursuit of Happy Hips. Or he can just ask me, and I can help make his hips happy. Put that on your mat and bend it.

"At the center of your being, you have the answer." -Lao Tzu

Emma Dinzebach — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 16:00:00 GMT

My book writing uses so much emotional dude energy that I have none left to date and consequently, less dating stories. (Which is not entirely true, but for all practical purposes, all you need to know.) There exist some handsome exceptions. (People said my last boyfriend I would have made "whack ass looking kids," so I'm only dating handsome. My friends used to joke that it was my thing to date guys less attractive than me, which was true. I did that for about five years. It was a power thing. Then I had dinner with a smokin' ex and decided to throw that plan out the window. You only live once. You may as well wake up next to someone beautiful.) So my reasons for not writing as much are as follows: #1: Emma Dilemma is under facial reconstruction courtesy of another hot guy I know. (Once I made the handsome decision, the universe just started sending them to me in like truck loads!) #2: At the end of of my dude-drenched days, I'm fucking sick of dealing with guys. So far, there are no exceptions. #3: I feel strongly dissonant writing to the world about guys and all of my existential analysis of yadda yadda yadda. I feel dissonance consulting my friend on his new car. I feel dissonance helping my friend pick out Jimmy Choos to match her dress. Not because of the consumption- hell, our economy still needs the stimulation - but because I feel cumbersome guilt over the materialistic focus. In the end of the day, what does it really matter what kind of car we have or how perfectly our shoes match our dress? Who really cares? Except both exude personal style, and personal style is, psychologically speaking, much more reflective of us than we might think...

My dissonance extends from #4: My Euro bestie is in Haiti on a UN humanitarian relief effort. Her father flew to Northern Haiti this week to help perform surgery on Earthquake victims. #5: My very dear family friend was in a tragic, although luckily not fatal, car accident and has a painfully long recovery ahead. #6 While I believe that creating is one of the most important human capabilities, I can't help but feel that, after a long day writing, that which I created was made in vain. Doesn't the truly self-actualized create free of vanity for others to enjoy? If I can't organize my even convictions, how can I create at all?

But I will force myself to because without creativity, that building on the corner for sale is just another building on the corner for sale. And we can do better than that. Happy Groundhog Day y'all.

Emma Dinzebach

Lonely Boy

Emma Dinzebach — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 19:48:00 GMT

A break-up is a break-up, even if you only dated for a short period. Done. Finito. Or as I used to say in high school, see ya time. Unless we’re eternally tied by social circles, a friendship needn’t blossom. I have a strict routine: axe the faux Facebook friendship (unless, again, I need it for strategic purposes), delete his number and erase all texts, emails, voicemails. Then my friends allow a liberal two day mourning period where I’m allowed to say “Should I email him?” and all that foolish mumbo jumbo. On day three, I go on a date with an adequately vulnerable chap. I bat my lashes and flex my superior dating muscles to achieve a quick ego boost. Then I trot off in the sunset on my high horse.

It works wonderfully unless (and there is a but) said break-up partner is a lonely boy. Lonely boys don’t have enough friend distractions. They are often able to distract themselves during the week with work, gym, and shit like that; but come Friday, they are blowing you up. Grrrrr. My most recent encounter with this stomach-turning display of loneliness involved a late night text “I just saw Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick.” So I’m thinking: Big woop. This is New York not Kentucky. Plus I have never even uttered either name in the whole five seconds I entertained your candidacy for permanency, so it’s not like you’re texting me because you just saw my actor numero uno. Clearly you’re lonely. Text. Someone. Else.

Then lonely boy goes on to say that he really wants to see a film we had previously discussed but doesn’t want to go by himself on a Friday night. And I’m thinking: Srsly? Do you need a box of tissues? Oh, I’m so sorry it’s lonely sleeping in the BED YOU MADE, but you’re going to need to take your boo hoos elsewhere because I don’t give a fuck if you see a movie alone, with your closet gay bestie or with an imported Rusky escort. Plus, who complains about loneliness to a person they just told they don’t want to date? Who does that?

I’ll tell you who – people who have trouble letting go because they want to have their precious egos continually stroked. Sometimes they are questioning their decision. Other times they are just feeling that lonely void left when your “go to” person vanishes. http://thevoguecity.com/lonely-boy

Across the Universe

Emma Dinzebach — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 16:11:00 GMT

I have an uncanny ability to will things to myself. An unrecognized talent really, wholly underrated because it's just not commonplace when people ask what you are good at to say, "Oh I have an amazing ability to channel my energy so that the universe sends me what I need...or sometimes what I want." Nope, not common. People think that's a little bit weird actually. People are wrong.

As you all know I was recently sans phone for the second time in a year. Unlike the first time, I knew I couldn't will it back to my hot little hand, so I went eight days without a phone. Um, I was busy. Duh. Saturday I arrived in St. Louis for a much needed visit with Pops & Co. We had some delicious Malibu and Mountain Dew mixtures and chatted the afternoon away. As the night wore on, I decided a little socialization might be good. Plus I recently exchanged a totally inappropriate lingerie gift for ten pairs of Wolford tights. One sheer flowery pair I was dying to debut. When my BFF picked me up she absentmindedly said, "Who have you talked to?"

"Um, no one!" I shrieked. "ReMEMber? No mobile."

"Oh, sorry. I forgot."

"I figure whoever I am meant to see the universe will provide for me," I replied positively.

"Um, okay," she replied.

Every now and then I flirtatiously chat with a tall, very handsome guy I was quasi-friends with in high school. We kind of have a fake, semi-silly secret crush on each other - the kind of imaginary relationship you wonder about but never comes to fruition. One of those things you both know but never talk about because it's nothing and even writing it now is a borderline loser. So anyway, fast forward our drive to the meeting place - a restaurant where we are meeting our two friends. Inside, I put down my coat, look over and see said guy. No joke. That's who the universe sent me. Across the whole universe, I get him; and it was a pretty clear sign because no one else unexpected was there. I only ran into one person: him. (The universe likes being clear.) I turned back and said to my friends, "Shut up. SHUT. UP. Like for real? This is who the universe sends me?" To which they probably rolled their eyes. I applied some lip gloss and turned around to tell him the exact story I am telling you now about lost phone and channeling my energy and the universe sending me him and all that jazz.

"Are you serious?" he said looking at me like I might be a bit crazy.

"I swear on my life. This always happens to me," I replied dramatically.

"Too funny. You are nuts, but I kind of love it," he responded, laughing.

"I mean not really. I'm just an extremely self-aware, in tune human." Hm, maybe I didn't say that because that sounds a bit weird; but it was something like that. So I'm not sure why the universe sent me him. I'm way better at Square 1 - willing that which I desire - than I am at Squares 2 through 4. Hence the reason I've had so many first dates. I'm so great at baiting. I'm like the baiting pro; but I'm not so great at reeling it in, deciding if it's a keeper, filetting the poor thing, and so on. Basically, I have no idea what to do with what the universe sends me.

He did, however, promise to renovate Emma Dilemma for my Christmas present. He's Emma Dilemma's cyber Stacey and Clinton. I'm sure he's thrilled to hear that.

Speaking of 2010, I resolve to share a glimpse into my 66 First Dates book with my readers. If you have title suggestions, please feel free to email them to me and thank you to those of you who already have although I must say they have been mostly shitty suggestions. I also resolve to eat less sugar, become a better skier, and lose five pounds. My 2010 goal: finish and publish my book. (You should have both resolutions and goals. You could resolve to follow through with your goals, and if you need help, hire a life coach. I have a great one.)

Lastly, in 2010 I hope (because you should have hopes too!) to go on less dates. An awesome friend told me today that, excellent baiter or not, I needn't give men who have just one requirement a chance because sometimes in life, it's all or it's nothing.

Go for all.

"Oh [Craig], you always find a way to do it for me." -Emma Dilemma

Emma Dinzebach — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 19:38:00 GMT

It could very well be because I was a bad girl last weekend (again), and stayed out way to late (damn Sunday nights) or because I have gotten too much sleep in the past two days for any one girl. Whatever the case may be, I decidedly pumped some midday entertainment into my fake Friday by browsing...Craigslist. You know it's fun! Here is what I found. Oh, you might want to sit down.

Winner's Circle:
1) Escape from Noisy Crowds at The Quiet Party! Is this a joke! A party with NO music, NO talking, NO cell phones?!? But chock full of pens and papers for you to pass around notes, which are supposed to in someway be mischievous. Why wouldn't you just text each other and save the earth? I don't know about you, but if I'm really being mischievous some noise is going to be involved. Wink. Wink. Needless to say, I passed on this one because let's be honest, I'd get the boot in T-2 min flat.

2) So we've established that the quiet party should really be a text party, but if you want to be mischievous, gentlemen pay attention, you may want to first visit this dude Free Text Seminar with Race DePriest: For The Guys Only. My only question is, doesn't Race know that the "T" should not be capitalized? I mean really, who is going to take Race's text instructions seriously if the texts aren't even grammatically correct? Uh, not me. Plus, any guy who even considers going to this is a loser. End of story. BTW did you click on the link because you may notice the words "Wingman Training". This is some Mystery "The Game" shit gone terribly, terribly wrong.

3) Oh my god, and then there's this one, which you know has roped in many-a-female: Help With a Bad Relationship. "Oh my god, so like, my boyfriend, was like, staying out all night blowing lines of coke and sucking face with that American Apparel loving One Oak wonder whose always showing everyone her Britney. I mean, like, did you even think he would do that after throwing that can of Pabst at me last week at Pianos. [Background music = Blood Street]. As if!" Please look at the book "Magic of Making Up." Newsflash: Break the fuck up.

4) And in case the "Magic of Making Up" fails you, and your boyfriend continues to rough you up and/or calls you your sister's name during s-e-x there's always Samuri Sword Karate Classes! (Sword not included.)

5) So you've signed up for classes, seminars and parties just to discover that none fill the hole in your sorry ol' soul. Oh well, at least Mrs. Seahawk WANG-Radojcic will capture your involvement, thus proving to the masses that at least you cared enough to try. (Not sure why the WANG has to be in all CAPS.) EVERY (even your) GROUP NEEDS THIS TOO...! She's not only about capturing "human vision", but she will find that rotten soul of yours and capture that worthless bit too.

Runners-up:
1) Real Live People Party's Upcoming Singles Event - They're real. They're live. And they're here to match...YOU...UP!!!!!
2) Fathered a baby lately? Never fear, Urban Papa is here! Are You An Urban Papa? "I like it when you call me big papa..."
3) And the winner of the best Craigslist group title goes to...drumroll please... Come play in The Spiritual Sandbox! Um, no gracias.
4) I honestly kind of want to help this guy out: NYC naturist/nudist group. Honestly, read it. He assures you that it isn't about sex. You can just meet up, play chess, make a ham sandwich, and do other things that regular people do clothed. Maybe we should pair up his group with the Samuri Sword Classes. Ow-wee.
5) "The Maker Maker's Make It" - only someone from Staten Island would put something so ambiguous then load the page with Jesus pictures. I'm no Son of God, but if I were Jesus, I wouldn't like this.

Honorable Mentions that should've been ranked higher, but I found them later:
1) I want to join a DANCE Group! People say he has "skills," but if not, he can learn! He's also a writer, photographer, rapper...just doesn't have "adegree." Can't get enough. Email him! "With auditions, whatever." Or visit his myspace at myspace.com/neva2black.

Who doesn't love a little self-promo via photo collage?

2) Desiring to be part of the world? A group? A club? A city? A country? Um, I was too scared to click on this because the picture freaked me the fuck out. I have a hunch it's NSFW - let me know if you dare...

And that, web surfers, is the weekly window into my never-dull mind. I hope it was distracting, fun and kind of turned you on. Cowabunga.

"And I'm on my knees looking for the answer. Are we human or are we dancers?" -The Killers

Emma Dinzebach — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 03:01:00 GMT

For me, Rick is the most striking 21-year-old guy I've known. He has this deep, chocolatey voice. (And no, I'm not PMSing.) It could even be soporific except his deliberate and impassioned words transcend the melodic tone, extending from deep within his soul. I'm only occasionally able to speak with Rick, for our schedules rarely cross for any extended period of time permittable for conversation. When I find myself lucky enough to steal some moments with him, we cut straight to our individual hearts-of-the-matters like our stages of self reflection, current epiphanies, individual revelations and ardent aspirations, attempting to articulate as honestly and openly as two people who barely speak with one another can. And we succeed.

Important Sidenote: This could be a totally deluded hypothesis, but maybe because our conversation began on a deeper level than that of most relationships, it would be unprecedented to converse on anything but. I've noticed, possibly erroneously, that he sort of avoids engaging me unless he aims to share something he's reflected on. Maybe he isn't avoiding conversation with me at all. Maybe he chooses his interactions wisely because I'm older and more sophisticated. HA! Truthfully, I have no idea why he doesn't ask me about the weather or a restaurant or my dancing for crying out loud, but he doesn't. It's not our thing.

So today I had the fortune of extended conversation with Rick. It began as simply as me asking him how he was feeling and him responding that he felt tired. "Well, why are you tired," I asked, mainly because he always asks me questions like why? what is the reason? how? and how come? to which I am forced to think more than I'd planned that day. He responded that he was up late and should've gotten to bed earlier. "What were you doing up so late?" I asked, secretly giving him a taste of his own medicine. "Listening to music and talking," he responded. Of course he was! When I stay up to late I'm taking shots of Petron and debuting my newest moves amidst the disco lights on the checkered Southside dancefloor, but when Rick is tired it's because he was dissecting and exploring music and ideas with the precision of a high school biology teacher. Ugh. I'm so immature. And now because I'm feeling immature, I want to make him think even more, so ask exactly what he was discussing that required such a late night. (And Rick's drug free I might add.)

My sarcastic brickbats allude to both his level of maturity and my intense appreciation of his consistent internal examination, of which I'm forever impressed. Last night, Rick explained, he had a moment where he "looked himself in the eye." (Maybe this is his personal business that I shouldn't publicize, so I've changed the name to protect his privacy. Except that he doesn't seem at all like a Rick, and I've had to go back after finishing and finalizing the entire post, so I don't fail to capture even the tiniest bit of his true character.) Moving on, the POINT is that Rick said he "looked himself in the eye" and "really saw" himself, realizing at that moment what he had been doing and that he needed to change. As of late, Rick had found himself judging other people and sort of putting them down to gain self-glorification for the strides he's made towards creating the man he wants to be and reaching some of his goals. Although he didn't want to accept it at first, he realized the flaw in question was indeed a flaw, and that tearing apart others for thier differences, inabilities and/or basic bullshitting does nothing for his own journey and isn't a respectable way to advance oneself. The verdict was in. The court adjourned.

Did I mention he's 21?!?!

Upon accepting a characteristic that Rick wasn't proud of - isn't rather, because we all know change doesn't happen over night - he decided that he would not live his life picking apart other people. Everyone jives at their own pace, and while some jive a little more quickly and efficiently than others (eh hem...let me clear my throat), different paces and different places make the flava of life. To each his mother fucking own. Live and let live. And in case you think this is some common life lesson, recurring emmadilemma theme or in any way obvious, may I remind you that we live in a world of full of fear of rejection and judgement. The two are evil enemies and BFF. Did you ever see Hancock? They are like the superheroes in Hancock - can't be together and can't be apart. (Okay, terrible analogy - Abraham Lincoln is turning in his grave with that awful analogy, but you get it. Oh, Lincoln was the master of analogies in caseyou didn't get that .) Anyway, we fear rejection because we reject/judge/evaluate/etc. Rick is wise beyond his years spawning a medium-epiphany - I have judged it so! - for the less we judge others, even those we see as superficial, plastic BS-ing flakes, the less we'll be confined by fear of judgement-based rejection in our own lives.

Friday night I listened carefully while my handsome, dynamic dinner date explained that he doesn't like these kind of people and only likes [blah] kind of people and would rather hang out with x and y but not z beacause his friends don't like z - yadda, yadda, yadda. One of the great freedoms of life is that you may choose who to surround yourself with, but of more importance is the challenge to accept without regard the people you don't choose, those you judge and those who live differently. My 21-year-old friend has looked at himself and seen something that neither me nor my date have been able to either expel from or acccept in ourselves. When you strip away all of the bullshit self-proclamations, and there are many in a city where everyone is striving to be someone and make something, you just have you. For Rick, what's left is a soulful essence, both radiant and soothing, creative and thoughtful, that will stay with him throughout all of the Ricks he can be. If I could bottle the amount of soul that radiates from him I would retire to St. Bart's and make the sexy with my ex-boat captain. For me it's an energetic essence lined with passion and carrying hope for all the world's inhabitants. For my Friday night dinner date it's an intellectual essence that aims to promote reason alongside an unceasingly idealistic, lustful search. For you, the way you express your own essence may fluctuate or stay the same, but in the end of the day:
"We measure ourselves by what cannot be taken away." -Mia Farrow

*This post is dedicated to the many wonderfully complex men in my life who make me grow, encourage me to reach and remind me to never stop thinking.

"Haters will hate. It's that simple. So strive and thrive my friend." -Michael Cricket

Emma Dinzebach — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 19:51:00 GMT

For the record, I fully realize that this is going to sound somewhat crazy, but bear with me here. So I have been practicing sending out postive, dedicated vibrations for the things in life I want. Positive thinking yields postive results, right? Right. Rather than think, I hate going to work when it rains., I've been thinking, I feel motivated to do more in nice weather. Alright, alright! Enough with the eye-rolling. Those of you who think it doesn't work obviously have not been graced with the fortune that results from postive thinking.
Goooooooo Positivity!!!!

All day yesterday I was having some conflicted feelings regarding a person very close to me. Although, I can't say who it is because you all will seriously think me a whacko. And stop the snickering because it's not Robert Pattinson. I'm not that crazy. Anyway, I'm walking home from dinner last night, and I have two quarters in my pocket. I thought to myself : If one of these quarters is [STATE X] then I am going to call - the person, who we will call Taylor - Taylor. If either are a state of any amount of significance, then I will take it as a sign that I need to relax and continue with the positive vibrations. And if it is neither are neither, then I'll pretend I never had this queer little convo with myself and never mention it to myself or anyone else. Note: I have a list of four states that render "significant" in my mind. That's only 4 out of 50. Plus there are quarters with no states on them, so 51. So I had about a .08% chance of anything meaningful coming out of my late night quarter game. (Except that's so far from accurate because I'm sure there are uneven number of state quarters circulating, but whatev, you get the gist.)

The reveal: The first quarter was New Mexico, which wasn't one of the initial significant states, but immediately upon seeing it I remembered that it actually IS significant. I stared at it, puzzled and ran smack into what looked like a homeless man cleaning up tables, but may have just been a kinda dirty, smelly man cleaning up tables. (Tables for what, I could not decipher.) The quarter went flying, and I scurried around in front of an entire line of people outside of Joe's Pub to retrieve my oh so significant quarter. Once I had it safely in my opposite pocket, I shyly dipped my head down and carried on past the big security men outside of Butter before revealing quarter numero dos. The second beared the state Missouri. (No effing joke!) We all know the significance of MO, my home state (show us seven, we show you eight)...AND Taylor's home state. In conclusion, I have received a sign and means I'm on the right track with the positive vibrations.

I just thought of C&C Music Factory. Random.

I went home and recounted the story to my journal, securely taping both quarters inside as proof... Proof of what, I do not know, but proof nonetheless! It's quite amazing that the significant quarters were drawn into my possesion by my positive thinking, right? Yeah, and you thought I was losing it. Oh, no siree. I may actually be one step ahead of the game.

Uh-MAZE-ing indeed... (Insert somewhat scary, whimiscal sound effect here.)

Maybe I am writing this because the year is coming to an end, and embedded in my perky, upbeat nature is a desire to end on a positive note. Or I'm possibly just one of those crazy sign seekers who feels the need to tell her story. But like I told my brother last weekend, you learn in Psych 101 that positivity pays. Hello? Self-fulfilling prophecies! Anyone? Anyone? If you think (and by think I mean downright internalize) that you are destined for greatness, then by golly YOU ARE. But if you think you're just another run-of-the-mill paper pushing finance guy, then that is what you will be. Just like if I think I have two dirty ol' quarters in my pocket, then that's what I'm going to pull out, but if I think that maybe they are glistening with answers, then... Well, I don't have to tell you twice.

I'm leaving my 2008 blog life with this quote from the most wise-beyond-his-years 22 year old I know:

"You're on the right path, so follow your heart. Put that positive energy out there, and DON'T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF! Haters will hate. It's that simple. So strive and thrive my friend. And in the words of Jerry Garcia: Just keep on truckin'." -Michael "Cricket" Dinzebach

Now go get your shiny quarters!

"Yes, you are exactly my brand of heroine." -Edward Cullen, Twilight

Emma Dinzebach — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 16:31:00 GMT

Author's Note: 1200+ people (that's kind of a lot, right?) read my last blog post and none paid a bit of attention to the category ("Fiction"). But for the record, I don't think "What I Think Now" properly categorizes this entry. It deserves some glitter! But for now it remains "What I Think Now" because my mind is failing to generate the right word.

What I think now about Twilight is if Bella doesn't become a vampire or at least become pregnant with a half-vamp babe at the end of this saga (I'm on #3), I'm sending an envelope full of anthrax to Stephanie Meyer. If you know how to get a hold of some, please email me or feel free to leave it in the comment section and we can ban together. Kidding, people. Geez. I wouldn't dream of sending anthrax to Meyer; in fact, I kinda heart her. Who hasn't had a romantic dream they couldn't get out of their head? For years I had flashbacks of a dream where I wandered through the White House looking for then-Prez Bill Clinton only to stumble upon the oval office scattered with naked mannequins. Okay, not so romantic. But imagine the fictional possibilities! I, however, was either too lazy or lacked the creativity to expand that dream into a whimsical, four part fantasy. My dream also lacked one truly inspiring Edward Cullen. Too bad, so sad.

Several people did suggest that Twilight influenced "After Midnight". Many were absolutely certain! And there were quite a few readers, none of whom I actually know, who suggested I refrain from posting until I've finished the fourth book and it's well on its way out, out, out of my system. Did you know that you can look up Exorcists in the yellow pages? That may come in handy.

(Sidenote: I just received a text from the young Bengali man to whom I teach English that reads: "Dear Emma, Greetings for u. Today is our great holy Eid day. I pray for u to God that you will be happy forever." And I'm smiling because in addition to the fact that I need all the prayers I can get, his English is improving! Yeah for charity teaching! Yeah for Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, which I had him watch to brush up on vernacular and Cali-style slang.)

Last night my friend said that her mom called her after seeing Twilight the movie and excitedly exclaimed, "I'm in love with a vampire boy!" Um, meeeeeee too. A guy I know says that a MAN at his work spends his lunch hour sitting by himself reading Twilight. My friends fight over who gets what book next, claiming "dibs" when each other are finished. Saturday evening I was at my coworker's housewarming party, in quintessential (see also: essential) Emma-party mode - complete with elaborate, exaggerated storytelling, nonchalant hair flips and periodic sarky soliloquies - when I found myself immersed in an in-all-seriousness, intense breakdown of...TWILIGHT! Suddenly I'm judging casting selections like I'm Joe Neumaier (although I doubt Neumaier fancies Twilight), highlighting themes and symbolism and yadda yadda yadda-ing. Someone should've told me to shut up! But, and this is the phenomenon part, so focus: No One Did. Not a single attendee told me to quit talking about stupid Twilight because, fan or foe, it appears that everyone has something to contribute when it comes to Twilight. (If I could insert sound effects, I would put a swishy chime noise here.)

(Another sidenote: People should be banned from checking their voicemail on speaker in the office or in any public setting.)

Maybe it is the election distraction or the war or the layoffs or the fact that Chuck and Blair desperately need to have S-E-X already, but the Twilight sensation screams to the fact that Americans are sa-sa-seriously lacking romance. I'm not kidding. I date. I see what we have become. I used to have creative, thoughtful suitors sweeping me off my feet, now I have one in a sea full of FF-obsessed amoebas. There was a time when I received monthly flowers, now I can't even get my dad or my best friend to send them. (Hint, hint.) And for the record, it's not about the things it's about old-fashioned thoughtfulness. Edward, although nonpareil, doesn't shower Bella with gifts. He protects her. Oh, so knight-in-shining-armoresque. Sigh.

Recently I was cocktailing with my favorite male Manhattanite when he said, "New York City is changing, Emma, and I'm worried about your safety. Do you carry mace?"

"No. I mean, it doesn't usually fit in a clutch if I'm out and by the time I would find it in any other bag I have, I'd be smeared on the sidewalk, unconscious, Manolos stolen right off my feet."

"This is not a joke sweetheart. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you. One word: Mace. I'm buying you some this week. And be careful!" he insisted, ignoring my lame attempt to make light of his augury.

I joke, but as archaic as it sounded, it was Cullen-style chivalry. The version I can't readily find anymore, and it's sadly cyclical because when one person fails to be astute so does the next and the next and the next until suddenly we are living as solely self-serving egomaniacs. It's the same with friends, family, and coworkers. Remember when you used to spend time planning a funny present for your mom for Christmas. This creativity was reciprocated by your family and friends in an effort to out-HoHoHo one another. It was funny because it was thoughtful and creative. Now you just order a waffle maker off Amazon.com and Happy effing Hanukkah.

So this year, when you go to buy presents, remember it's the thought that counts. No, actually, I'm getting everyone a copy of Twilight. Read it. Re-learn to be thoughtful and hold hands and go ice-skating and sneakily hide funny knick knacks in your coworker's desk. Skip down the hall. Cook dinner with your friends. (Mac & Cheese Off!) Make out under a mistletoe even, but for the love of god read the book. If for no other reason than having something to chat about at your office holiday party. (Wait, no one gets holiday parties this year. Foiled!) Read it anyway.

And may Twilight lead you to something magical. (Insert swishy chime noise here.)

Make love, not war.

After Midnight

Emma Dinzebach — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 15:59:00 GMT

Something that he said instantly brought tears to my eyes. There was really no use trying to hide it because he knows me too well. "But I don't want you to leave," I pleaded meekly. Concentrated, he looked at me and sincerely replied, "But you never even see me."

"But I know you're here," I replied, swallowing and blinking back my tears. "You showed me this city - the place I've grown to love. So many things about this city to me, are you," I explained with unwavering honesty. Desperately, I tried to lasso the crazy thoughts running wild in my head. He stared at me with his perfect, deep blue eyes, giving me time to collect myself. I turned away, and from my side I felt him pulling me into him. He was warm, thin but strong, and familiar like we had never been apart.

"I'm sorry. It's okay," he whispered me, continuing to hold me. He buried his head in my hair and breathed in. "You smell different," he said. "I smell different too."

"I know. I noticed."

"You did?" he questioned, playfully trying to lighten the mood.

I leaned towards him and pretended to smell him. When I tried to lean back he pulled me in and put his cheek next to mine. I could feel my heart thumping loudly. I felt his too. Suddenly, I was transported back to the quad. It was the summer of 2001, and I was eighteen. The sky was perfectly clear that night, and we lay in the grass discussing constellations and what lies beyond the stars. "Close your eyes," he told me and took my hands into his. "Just concentrate on how I feel and my blood flow." Is this guy crazy? I remember thinking. Blood flow? But as we stood facing each other, hand-in-hand, I could feel him. It was like we were spinning higher and higher, and there couldn't possibly be another soul on earth except for ours.

His cheek was warm against mine, and I noticed that our lips were dangerously close to one another. He was breathing harder and my heart was racing. Neither of us paid attention to the fact that the bartenders and waitstaff were likely looking at us thinking we were either stoned or desperately needed to get a room. It wasn't that. It was something more, and when he slowly moved his lips over mine, for a second, I stopped breathing. I couldn't breathe. My mind was blank, and eventually I pulled back and gasped for air. A smile spread over his face and through his blue eyes. He took both hands to either side of my face pulling me towards him, and he kissed me.

Oh no, I thought. This must be the best feeling in my life.

Then my mind went blank, and for what seemed liked hours, I didn't think anything. I just sat with him, touching him and kissing him. As I began to regain conciousnesss, his lips pleaded with mine, but I knew that we had to go our separate ways. There is too much vulnerability, too much history, and too many emotions to let this go on. I pulled away and looked at my watch. 11:58 p.m. "I'm going to turn into a pumpkin," I said.

"The carriage turns into the pumpkin," he replied, smirking.

"You know what I mean," I protested. He pulled me off my bar stool in between his legs and brushed my hair out of my face.

"Can we get our check?" he asked the bartender. I looked around and noticed that the restaurant had nearly cleared out. The bussers were clearing and wiping the tables, but it felt like we had just gotten there. He pulled me into his chest to show me that he understood and kissed the top of my forehead, holding me there until our check arrived. When I stood up to put my coat on, he took it from me and tucked me in, pulling my hair out and smoothing it down over my back. Few men think to pull you hair out. A couple years ago, I was approached by an older gentlemen in the lounge at a Ritz Carlton. When my group was eager to move on, the man held out my coat, tucked me in and gently pulled my hair out. It reminded me of him, and I remember longingly staring at this man for a minute before I thanked him and quickly walked away to catch up with my friends.

I turned to him, searching his face for what I did not know. "Shall we?" he asked. He opened the glass door, and I walked through into the misty cold. "I didn't know it was supposed to rain," I said.

"I don't think anyone did," he replied and put his arm around me to shield me from the wet. We walked like that down 7th Street. I ducked my head into his shoulder to protect my hair from the rain. He covered my head with his opposite arm and kissed my cheek.

This is not real. This cannot be real.

I've noticed that in this life, you come across people who know what you are thinking without a word spoken. It's what I love and what I hate about him. He must have sensed my disbelief because all at once, he pulled me into a doorway, out of the now sprinkling rain, and kissed me. I was pressed against the door, not thinking about the fact that someone could attempt to exit the building at any given moment. He lifted my left leg and placed it around him, holding my waist tightly with his free hand. Instictively, I grabbed the back of his head, pulling his hair through my fingers as his lips moved from mine down my neck.

I'm going to wake up tomorrow and this is going to be the best dream I have ever had, I assured myself.

When he finished kissing my neck, he moved back up to my lips and kissed my entire face. Then, as if he knew I was fading back into reality, he slowly pulled away from me and stared at me. He said my full name.

"Yes," I answered. But he didn't say anything; he just kept staring. I returned my foot to the floor and smoothed the back of my hair. Shaking my head, I moved out of the doorway and back into the rain. He followed, reluctantly, but I knew that if I didn't stop now we would inflict a pain much worse than what we already had in store for the next few days, weeks, likely months.

"Okay," he conceded and wrapped his arm around me again. "I will leave you at Corrin Street," he said assuredly as if he had to declare it aloud so we both knew there was a finite end. We walked in silence for a few minutes and when it came time to part, he faced me, waiting. I walked towards him, and we kissed again. Looking back, I should've stayed with him a little longer. Had I realized that it could be the last time I touched him like that, I would have stayed and savored the moment. But anxiety began to creep up, creating an urge to flight. Leave now in case this is actually real, my mind told me. One more time, I looked at him. "Don't get mugged," I said jokingly referencing his earlier warning about how the city crime is escalating, and I turned and walked away.

I couldn't decide if I wanted to cry or scream or sleep until I wiped the memory of this evening out of my mind forever. Everything was a blur, and I hardley remember walking home, talking to my roommate and her friend and getting ready for bed. Sleep came easily as I was emotionally exhausted and confused. Normally my evenings are filled with vivid fantastical events, but I slept without dreams.

When the dim sun peaked through my curtain, I immediately sat up. Was it a real? I asked myself. I took inventory of my room. Leggings on the floor - check. Sweater crumpled on top of my hamper - check. Booties and socks scattered - check. So I definetely got undressed and into bed in a fury, which meant I was eager to escape reality. Maybe it was real, but how would I know for sure? I showered and dressed pushing the images and memories from my mind. If this was real, I needn't dwell on it all day long. There was absolutely nothing to be done, and I refused to emotionally torture myself by ananlyzing every last detail. That periously flawed system may work on my other love interests, people who don't mean anything, but for better or for worse, it doesn't work on him. I know him better than anyone else, making my contstant analysis and gathering of everyone else's opinions futile. What happened or didn't happen is mine to own, and I will act cautiously and responsibly for once in my relationship-laden life.

Later in the day my roommate confirmed my evening by an SMS recount of the frazzled and dreamy state I appeard in when I arrived home past midnight. She said I mumbled his name a few times and started and stopped a hard-to-follow story before ushering my Siamese cat into my room and turning off my light. Several times she inquired into what exactly had happened, but I felt that telling anyone would be breaking our unspoken secret. Was last night a secret? Our secret?

Normally, I go around blabbing to everyone every last mundane detail of my so-called love life. My coworkers ask me about the multitude of men in my life refering to them by amusing nicknames. There's the "ex-bartender" and "Converse" and "triple button guy" (don't worry, he never got a second date) and "old man hands" and "fake Italian." But I refused to reduce him to a nickname, and the only way to prevent that was not to mention him or utter a single word of the evening.

However, I couldn't escape my spastic nature and needed a tiny bit of advice regarding how this evening would or would not affect the rest of my life. So I asked a friend who hadn't known me when I dated him if I was obligated to mention my whimsical evening to the guy I was currently seeing. "Absolutely not," she adamantly stated. "Whatever did or did not happen is none of his business. For now, neither of these men are your boyfriend." I was thankful that she advised me without inquiring into every last detail.

But I'm slightly high-strung and somewhat of a control freak, so all day long I yearned for a conclusion. I knew I could not call him and desperately tell him how I was willing to sacrafice the life I spent years creating so that we could be together...because there was too much at stake. I loved him. And those words were absolutely not coming out of my mouth. I vowed to myself that nothing would leave my lips for one month and one week. That is the timeline I gave myself - the conclusion I created. If I still feel these overwhelming, frighteningly desperate feelings in one month and one week, then I will reach out to him. Not a minute before. It may seem dramatic, but without a structured timeline I will undoubtedly drive myself to the brink of insanity. One month and one week.

That night I, for the first time since I moved to the city, I took our photo album off of my shelf and hid it in the very back of my closet. I had left it there for aestheic reasons and hadn't opened it in at least a year, likely longer. But now I couldn't trust myself not to cheat. One month and one week, I repeated in my head. Then I pulled out my journal and wrote the date, one month and one week from today, in a new entry. I briefly recalled the night to ensure I remembered the important details - not that I ever forget anything - but to ensure that, should I die tomorrow, someone else would know that last night existed. (Although that plan was inherently flawed because I've requested all of journals burned without reading.) He would know though. That would be enough for me.

I rarely pray because I never really know to what or to whom I am praying, but the unprecendented vow I made to myself warranted some sort of seal. So I closed my eyes and asked that something greater and stronger than me give me the strength to keep my mind from wandering back to that night, to keep me focused on my work, and grant me the grace to accept whatever fate my future may hold. Then I squeezed my eyes tighter and drifted to sleep.

That was one week ago.

"Screw retirement savings. I'm going to eat out because I don't need a depression on top of this recession." -Mafalda para Presidente

Emma Dinzebach — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 17:07:00 GMT

Monday morning and the youth of New York City are up in arms over Thomas Friedman's latest unwelcome financial advice. If you aren't media crazed, then you probably don't live in this city and may have missed the article called We Found the W.M.D. (whatever that means). Well, I did not miss it and either did Shelia McClear. (Gawker, people. Duh.) But if you did, here is the part that pissed everyone off. He writes:

"So I have a confession and a suggestion. The confession: I go into restaurants these days, look around at the tables often still crowded with young people, and I have this urge to go from table to table and say: "You don't know me, but I have to tell you that you shouldn't be here. You should be saving your money. You should be home eating tuna fish. This finanical crisis is so far from over. We are just at the beginning. Please, wrap up that steak in a doggy bag and go home.""

I get that it's his job and he's a Nobel and Pulitzer prize winning economist, but what Thomas Friedman is really becoming reliably famous for these days is being a walking buzz kill. AKA Mom's minivan just pulled up. Quick! Quick! Hide the pipe in the fireplace. Spray some Lyesol. Do you have any Visine?

New Yorkers under 30, okay 35, widely agree that we shouldn't have to sacrafice our dining habits because the baby boomers, et al. fucked up the economy. Dining out is not just about dining out. Yes, dining out is the foundation of our social lives, but it is also our opporunity for career networking, an avenue for idea production and exchange and a cultural quid pro quo. Plus, I have news for you Friedman: We read. We know who you are. We can spot your dirty stache from a mile away. And should you find the courage or have the audacity to come up to us while we are dining (um, weirdo), we would tell you to shut-the-fuck-up. Because:
A ) We are outright sick of your spewing.
B )We have to support the places we love.
C ) We are living our lives.

Of course the remainder of the article highlights the real problem ailing the economy as the lack of trust and loss of confidence in our leadership and finanical system. While that is unarguably true, we are young and selfish and were more concerned about the part directed toward us, so I pooled some of our thoughts (below). I'm going out to lunch now. Peace.

On Friedman's http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/23/opinion/23friedman.html

"So you're allowed to be there and we're not? Not even if we're on a date or treating ourselves to a night out? Hey, Friedman: please put your thoughts and ideas in a doggy bag and take them home." -Shelia McClear, Gawker

"Snooze. No wonder you're not getting laid, Mr. Friedman." -Bookish Lookish

"And one can obviously recycle old thoughts and use again and again the same worn-out, reductionistic, simplistic, insipidly moralistic Papa Bear crap rather than investing in supposedly extravagant new thoughts, right, Tommy Boy?" -Tammyfaye

"That said, if I was out on the town, and Friedman had gone through with his urge, I'd'a been compelled to go through with my urge to slam his head against the table and hold it there, while my date goes from table to table encouraging the other diners to take turns kicking him in the ass." - Senor_Wences

"I thought we werent supposed to eat tuna because of overfishing!" -zkemeny

"But someone has to continue to support the restaurants we love, the shops where they pay attention to us and all the local businesses we have depended on, and have been good to us for 50 years. What about the team that cleans my house? The little Thai woman who does alterations? The guy who washes my windows? The yard guys? These people need us now, more than ever. I can still afford them and don't I have a responsibility to keep them on, even though my portfolio has taken a hit?" -Priscilla Robinson

"If you want to save this economy, you should stay home and NOT talk to peole; i.e. suggest to others that they stay home. The entire point is, if people are earning money from their job, then it is a service and of benefit to society, such as restauranteurs / theaters / vendors of all sorts that people go spend some of that money in pursuit of some consumerism." -MC

"She is something altogether different. Never just an ordinary girl." -Counting Crows

Emma Dinzebach — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 15:32:00 GMT

"Basically, Emma, you need to stop talking," said Dr. Hung to me early Friday evening. I looked to both PA's who nodded in agreement. Sigh. I had orginally gone to the ENT because I can only properly breathe out of one side of my nose. This caused discomfort over the summer when I was training for a triathlon because the water was only coming out of one side during my swims. You can actually see that my septum is deviated, so I figured that was causing the problems. When I finished explaining the nose issues to the doctor, he looked at me and asked "Has your voice always been like this?" Assuming he was refering to the raspy hoarseness, I replied "Well, since I was sixteen."

Good god, that's an entire decade. I feel old.

"It started to get raspy when I taught Splashercise," I explained.

"Splashercise?" he asked.

"It's water aerobics. I used to teach it in high school and college. It's not some easy old-lady water aerobics if that is what you're thinking," I clarified.

"I can't imagine you would teach anything less than difficult," said my doctor. Good answer. I may like this guy afterall.

"I think it got worse in college...the going out..." I speculated.

"Do you go out a lot now?" he asked. Is this a trick question? Because I'm guilty of a level of compliant transference with doctors. I start out explaining my symptoms as truthfully as I can, but as the visit progresses I find myself saying what the M.D. wants to hear. It's a redirection of feelings unconciously retained from childhood...transference, I mean. So should I lie and say I don't go out very often. If I lie, will he even believe me? I have a sinking feeling that I just look like a person who goes out a lot.

I pause to mentally recap my week to date. Tuesday night I stayed out until 3:30 in the morning. Wednesday night I had a volunteer event, then met up with friends, had shot of Tequila at a very late dinner, and got home minutes before I turned into a pumpkin. Thursday night, I made a cameo at my friend's work happy hour. He works for the Yankees and you know how rowdy those sporty types are, so there was another shot of tequila involved, which I had no business taking particularly in front of people I had just met, but I did it anyway. Don't act surprised. And proceeded to talk incessently about little George Komo - the world's cutest baby. You may be slightly crazy if you are showing pictures of someone else's baby to complete strangers at the bar. Luckily, I had a captive audience (Hiiiiiiiiiiii Ryan! Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii Jesse!), and hopefully they won't hold it against me. In conclusion, all three nights involved an elevated level of voice strain.

And this is my regular life.

I'm wondering if, in my eternal quest to live in the moment, I may actually being doing more damage than good. If so, that sucks.

"Well, I go out, but not more than average," I lie. Is that a lie? What exactly is average? "But also, I just talk a lot in general." Once, I was on a date with someone who would interrupt me in the middle of my story-telling and say, "Are you done yet?" Um, rude. And no I'm not done. Plus, if I were even remotely interested in you I would be asking you questions to learn about you rather than talking incessantly about myself. Take a hint.

"You have to stop talking so much, Emma. And it's probably a good idea to see a speech therapist, so you can learn to speak from your abdomen rather than from your throat."

"What about my NOSE!" I insisted, iritated that they had sprayed all of this burning shit in my nose, stuck a mini camera inside my nose, and hadn't mentioned that diagnosis.

"Oh, you'll have to have surgery to fix your septum. It's mildly deviated, which is causing the breathing issues," he replied candidly.

"So I have to stop talking and get like seventy feet of cotton stuffed into my nose?" I asked.

"Basically, yes."

"But I get drugs?" I said in an on-the-brightside tone.

"Yes." Did he roll his eyes? "And inthemeantime, I'm giving you some steroid spray. You need to spray this in your nose twice daily."

"STEROID SPRAY?" I said, picturing myself strangling my roommate in a fit of roid rage.

"It won't go into your blood stream, Emma. It's fine."

"Okay because I already have a bit of temper," I confessed. He faked a laugh, shook my hand, and walked out of the room.

I spent the next two hours on the phone with all four parents telling them that I wasn't supposed to talk. Then I called my two best friends and told them. Then I told Cricket, my neighbor, and the guy I had been out with the previous evening. Then I spent the remainder of my night conversing with my brother and his friends and talking animatedly on the phone to my godson's mom.

I got a text message from my dad a few hours later that said, "Shut Up."

I'm not really supposed to be talking, so I'm going to have to leave you with this emmadilemma update:

Recently, I found out that the second gentlemen referred to in the blogpoast Deal or No Deal (AKA BOF) lived in a room with another dude after college (he was 25!), and they had bunkbeds. No, you read correctly. BUNKBEDS. He would bring unsuspecting girls home to the bunkbeds. They were not warned. But surprisingly, they never left. They were possibly drunk, but some were actually repeat offenders who apparently liked the bunkbed...or just the guy. The worst part: His was the top bunk. The even worse worst part: His bunkmate (?) was 27. Unacceptable.

He did recently purchase shelves, but his bed remains on the floor. Someone else I know is seeing a guy whose bed is on the floor, but he's Euro. Euro dudes can get away with such idiosyncrisies because of their innate infallible romanticism. I don't think American men can make a bed on the floor sexy. Of course, you're more than welcome to try, darling.

I have to stop talking now kids.

"But that's just insecurity making castles out of clay." -Eren Cannata

Emma Dinzebach — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 02:27:00 GMT

What's the point of having a ton of friends if not one answers when I actually need them? I'm thinking as I walk Mia up Mott Street on this rainy post-election weeknight. I swallow the kind of forceful swallow you have to do so that you don't start crying. Abby, Jess, Ali, Anne, Aly, Garrett, Izzy...Brooke made dinner so she's busy. LES is preoccupied with other things, so I can't call her. KC is three hours earlier, so she is still at work. Stacey is home with her sick husband. Damn Lowe for leaving me. Damn Elena for leaving me. Eric has a baby and never answers on the first try anyway, although his unwavering bias is so comforting. Neil and Annie are out because they'll certainly call me out on my craziness. I'm going to have to move to my B-List friends. I run my B-List through my mind, and come to the conclusion that the reason you can't call your B-List friends when something is wrong is because you have to give entirely too much backstory. All of the energy I have left would be wasted on the backstory, and I would have no energy to describe my cluster-fuck of a day.

Yeah, I said cluster-fuck. Mom, don't ask.

I miss Coopertown.

I miss Lowe.

I miss my Mom.

Saved by the bell. It's Ali.

"Hello."

"You okay? Talk to me."

"I mean technically, I'm okay. But I'm far from my finest."

"Fucked, but not the way you like to get fucked."

"Correct," I confirm amazed that this is actually how we talk.

"Give it to me," she commands. "I have nothing to do but listen to your god-awful day. I'm here." I swallow. Sidenote: I normally reserve days like this for old-fashioned pen-on-paper writing. You realize I have excellent penmanship, right? Beautiful, perfectly slanted script. It flows. It's too beautiful to write the words of this day, so don't hold it against me. Dirty little dilemmas! And here's the small window into my day from hell...

* * *

"You threw a stick of deodorant at his head?!?!" Ali screeches. I move the phone away from my ear. "Dude, amazing."

"No Al, seriously, I was spazing the fuck out. Let me put this in terms you can understand. It was Unleash the Beast, the trilogy. No joke."

"Oh god. It just all came rushing out at once?"

"Confirmed. You know I can't drink when I have shit bottled up. And the worst part is that I forgot all about it until this morning when I text asking him to walk the dog, and he said he wasn't talking to me. So I spent the whole day apologizing, and I had to write the girl an apology email."

"You're fucking kidding me, right? You did that?" she exclaims, clearly not understanding the extent of my behavior, my victim's embarrassment or the uncomfortable environment I single-handedly created in a matter of minutes. Oh you didn't know, I can make people feel incredibly uncomfortable almost instantaneously. It's not something I'm proud of. Occasionally it has served me well, but most of the time it makes me look like an asshole. (Hari is mentally confirming this. The first step is admitting you have a problem, darling.)

"So then you go to talk to your boss..." Ali urges putting me back on track.

"Yeah, and I start talking about the doctor's note situation, and suddenly, I'm crying in his office. He was like, 'It's okay Emma. Take a deep breath.' And every time I attempted speech, it started again." I mimic the sound for dramatic effect, not that I need to because trust me, this day is dramatic enough. 'Save the drama for your mama.' was a sign in my brother's high school guidance counselor's office. I never liked that she had that. I thought it lacked sensitivity on the part of counselor and indicated judgement. Who wants to go to counselor who's going to judge them? And creating/living/breathing drama are essential high school functions.

"You didn't? Oh, god."

"Yeah, and then I'm crying for a totally different reason than he thinks I'm crying," and I go on to explain to her where the tears are really coming from and unveil the meaning behind the late afternoon boss' office waterworks. "I was in there for an hour Ali, and for the record, thank god my boss never took up therapy because he has zero capacity for empathy."

"Few people do. It's a learned skill that requires training."

"That skill is a god damn curse."

"You're telling me. Em, you had it coming from every direction." Truer words have never been spoken. Well, probably from somebody, but not by Ali and not today. And she's right. Not only did I royally piss off the person I care about most in the whole entire world, but I embarrassed him and that is much much worse. Plus I am wearing a full baby-sitting outfit: nerdy jeans, a striped long sleeve cotton shirt and velcro Pumas. I look like the "before" picture in a fashion magazine. My dirty hair is half slicked back in a ponytail and half shooting out in all directions. People likely mistake my dark circles for marks of domestic violence. I wish someone would punch me in the face. When I worked at Tao, we used to find creative ways to inflict pain on ourselves. Hypothetically speaking, if I lay down on the ground right here, can you kick me repeatedly until I die from internal bleeding? Please. Um, pretty please with a cherry on top?

For the majority of our talk I complain about work, and Ali gives supportive interjections. She's soothingly biased, and doesn't point out the fact that 70% of my daily pains were self-inflicted. In fact, she acts like they weren't.

"Okay, and I'm the first to admit when I do something wrong, out-of-line, stupid, and so on and so forth. But it's like how many times does he need to reiterate it?" I'm on the fourth bad part of my day, protesting and frustrated. "I get it. I'm actually the idiot." (Did you hear that Neil?) "But like, I heard you the first time, ya know?"

"Right," she agrees to make me feel better, "He doesn't need to keep saying it."

"I mean, basically I was just spouting off because I was insecure about the fact that I always have to be the initiator."

"Emma should not have to be the initiator," confirms Ali.

"Right. It makes me feel like a crazy stalker, and Al, I don't need anything else to make me feel crazy."

My friend Jess always says, "Give it some time before you unleash the crazy. You never want to unleash the crazy too soon." She would be really disappointed in my recent behavior. Come home Jess.

"Basically he doesn't want to hang out with me. So there is nothing I can do. Then I run into my friend just before you called who attempted to cheer me up by suggesting I join him for dinner at Peasant."

"You're favorite."

"Right. And I had to kindly decline because I've had such a bad day I can't muster up a bit of energy even for that burrata. Even for the skate. Although I could use about ten bottles of wine right now - Billy Joel style."

"You passed up Peasant? You must be hurting."

"I just want it to go away," I replied in a pitiful, small voice. I want to go back to the days where if you pissed off a guy he still at least wanted to have sex with you. Why can't we still live like that? When did they become thinkers?

"The first day Obama's President Elect, Emma can't cure something with her sex appeal. Those are for sure related. I just need to figure our exactly how," she says matter-of-factly. I laugh. It's all I can do not to run out and buy a chastity belt. Laughter is my only option.

"Have I totally lost it on all accounts. My work, my friends - oh, I forgot to mention that I was basically in a mini-fight with my friend's husband for a better half of the day - guys, my body isn't even working with me right now. I've had like three headaches in the past two weeks, and I don't even get headaches! My body is speaking to me, and my brain is trying so hard to shut it up that it's causing a headache...a brainache if you will."

"Brainache, right. I'm sorry I have no pearls of wisdom or helpful advice."

"Plus, all of my fan-club up and declared mutiny," I pointed out.

"You have no fans," Ali confirmed.

"That would explain these hot flashes."

"Not funny."

"I tried."

"Okay, well easy things first. What are you going to do about the dude from last night?" Ali asks, referring to the guy who claimed he was sick and couldn't meet me but failed to tell me all day until finally I had to text him!

"Well, I guess he can take me out again if he wants to, but I can't be running all over town for someone I don't even know. I can't afford the shoe repairs. I don't roll that way. Ever. Or at least I didn't, and suddenly I'm bending the rules right and left. This is bullshit."

"Right. Do some courting you lazy asses."

"I better be drinking $30 dirty martinis after that lame excuse."

"You and your dirty martinis. The way to Emma's heart." Ali says, recollecting her dive bar bartending days. I was the only person who would ever ask for dirty martinis...and then complain to my friend the bartender (Um, Ali! People stay with me here.) that they weren't made right.

"Listen, the worst that happens is you waste two hours out of your life and have a headache the next day."

"True. It's fine. I mean, maybe he is telling the truth. Just because a million men lie doesn't mean this one did."

"And he did apology text you several times."

"It's nice to be on the receiving end of an apology after a day of handing them out like Luna Bars," I reply.

"No, yesterday they were handing out flavored water. Sick. Don't fuck with my water."

"I always ask for extra when they have the Luna Bars. They are kind of big too. It's not like they're trying to sell you with one morsel of Luna. They want you to really get a good bite before you buy."

"I'm hungry."

"I have too much anxiety to eat, so I'll probably have TUMS for dinner."

"Great alternative to Peasant. I still can't believe you aren't out to dinner, drinking wonderful wine and eating the skate. You poor thing."

"Oh, and you know how I feel about that skate," I agree.

"I'm sorry Em."

"If you spend your entire day either apologizing or crying or both at the same time, you should eat some TUMS and go to bed. You should not eat anything that will make you feel fat. You should steer clear of wine or anything that could potentially increase tear production. Rules are rules. For the record, I haven't cried since February. That must be some kind of girls-gone-wild record."

"Oh god, then you needed it. Next week we'll plan a dinner with the girls," she suggests in a last ditch effort to comfort me, "I haven't seen you in too long."

It works like a charm. She's good for a trained therapist. "Okay. I need that. Wednesday or Thursday or Friday or Saturday or Sunday or D. All of the Above," I reply.

"I like the way your mind works. I love you."

"I love you too."

I walk up my stairs and into my apartment, dog in tow. I sit down and write this entry. Now I am finished and going to put this day away. Before bed, I glance at the magnet on my refrigerator to remind myself the following:

"Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is a quiet voice at the end of the day saying, I will try again tomorrow." -Mary Anne Radmacher

"There is so much more out there to be learned. Such mournful words...on this white snow vacant page. All the lessons that she's learned, she packs away." -Jelllyfish

Emma Dinzebach — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 01:38:00 GMT

"Hold her like a bunny rabbit! You know, hold her on your lap like a kangaroo bunny rabbit!" demanded Panda outside of our regular Soho spot late Saturday afternoon. I glanced to Mia, whose doggy Dior-lined eyes glared up at me with a look that threatened vicious attack if I dared to pick her up. "Panda, you need to learn to say please," I instructed, "I'm not going to do it if you're so bossy." (Yeah, yeah, pot calling kettle black, blah, blah.) Panda stomped one jeweled Prada slipper and deliberately jammed her petite hands onto her hips. "Please hold her like that...now! Just do it. C'mon...please." she ordered, slightly more pitiful. I looked at her, all of five feet, and thought how lucky small people are to be able to whine and pout. A tall girl would look absolutely ridiculous throwing this kind of a fit over a funny dog position. "Fine," I gave in, "but if I do it this time, I'm not doing it for the next ten times you see her. I don't even want you to ask. Understood?" She nodded, smiling, and wiped her strawberry brown hair from her eyes to get a better view of the scene that was about to take place. Mia sighed loudly in disdainful acceptance of her fate. "The other thing I wanted to talk with you about..." I attempted, and then tried to remember how I was going to say it.

I had practiced, on the walk up here, a psychologically rich yet sympathetic speech, and until now had intrepid justification for my motives. Panda could use guidance from a seasoned, yet youthful and beautiful, mentor who can still relate to her lifestyle. Um, me. Duh. Seeing her galvanized by something as small as Mia sitting on my lap, I questioned her ability to comprehend my motives: the desire to be the mentor I wished I'd had at twenty. And then I questioned the motives themselves. Does my aim center on her general well-being or am I using her as a projective catalyst to mollify the often ensconseced mistakes in my past? I felt Mia tense up in my lap, scared to be exposed in such a vulnerable position, as a black and white French bulldog happily trotted by, it's owner taking no notice of Mia, spread-eagle and in my lap. "My thoughts exactly," I told Mia and set her on the concrete, untangling her turquoise leather leash. I stood up straight, and prepared to deliver my speech. "It's just that," I started and then trailed off, noting the thing I never really liked about mentoring. When you're a mentor, you're required to expose your mistakes and use them as learning tools. Panda didn't even ask for my guidance. (Contain your surprise.) Rather, in a bout of self-righteousness I felt it my god-given duty to take her under my wing...but now, I couldn't decide for whom, if either, my efforts would benefit.

My mental rehearsal went something like, "Panda, I love you dearly and want you to know that you are an amazing girl. You're smart, super fun, and I can tell that people genuinely enjoy being around you. I also see how you act sometimes when you're not feeling confident or lacking attention...you have to relax a little and let it come to you." (Go ahead, laugh.) There was more, but I'm too embarrassed to delve into the specifics on my blog. When it came time to deliver my rehearsed speech, I realized that maybe the young woman who measures her self-worth through male attention and anxiously ruminates regardless of whether or not there is a legit reason to obsess may be neither ready nor qualified to mentor Panda -- or anyone for that matter. Bollocks!

How can I confidently mentor Panda if I myself have irresolute internal issues? And in regards to her general well-being, if I'm not comfortable revealing the mistakes I've made and using them as tools to mentor, then she will likely make those same mistakes I made. Furthermore, she will carry on void of a mentor to show her that the foundation of her confidence can't be found in Christian Louboutin thigh high boots (although those are fucking sexy), but actually comes from within. And in all honesty, it takes a long time to connect with. "I'm sorry Panda. I don't know how long it will take; I haven't gotten there yet." Yeah, that will sound really convincing, like a blind man claiming he can sort M&M colors. It will just take a really long time.

As the self-declared Manhattan Queen of Dissonance, I've dichotomize my life such that I have heaps of self-created dilemmas. (Hence the blog, people.) So is the real problem that I can't mentor Panda because I spend my days preoccupied with trivialites that hinder me from connecting with my true self? And does lack of self-connection make for an ill-suited mentor?

Wow. Um, I forgot to mention that you may want to sit down for this one.

Looking back, I've obsessed over my "Dealbreaker List" to the point of exhaustion and have yet to come up with a solid conclusion. I've obsessed over my tardiness and the meaning behind it - i.e. need for attention, selfish disregard for others, pure stupidity, etc. I've obsessed to near death over my writing, insignificant in a world characterized by capitalism versus global responsibility. And I've woken myself up in the middle of the night obsessing over that same world filled with suffering: orphaned children, farm animal rights, wounded soldiers and homelessness. In college, my friend John's dad jovially said to a table of my friends, "I would love, for one day, to have Emma's brain." I should really call Mr. Hornburg: "Remember my brain you wanted to borrow? Help yourself, sir. Knock your fucking socks off. I need a break."

Is there anyone who maybe wants to mentor me?

No, seriously.

In the end, I gave Panda a diet version of the planned speech. And her reception was consequently lighter than it would've been had I used some legit personal material. The version delivered was a total cop out because I was too self-conscious to use relevant life examples. I was afraid A ) To hear myself say out loud some (there's not a lot!) things that I'm somewhat ashamed of, and B ) That after listening she wouldn't have benefited from hearing my lame college-partying examples anyway. I, at one point confident and sure, quickly faded to doubting my ability to constructively mentor. I have been thinking about my failure ever since. (Shocking, I know.)

So maybe I get carried away obsessing over things like: email response lengths; my UPS man's sad face when he delivered my package on Friday; if letting Sal the Barber kiss me (on the cheek!), so that he continues bringing me coffee in the morning is considered non-fat latte prostitution; my fear that every single one of my ex-substance abuse clients are all back to using; sun damage versus pale skin; what color to paint my wardrobe; and of course, the opposite sex. It's hard to sort out the substance from the nonsense because it's all a tangled pile of rumination. In a recent self-diagnosis, I decided that I use my excessive rumination to both channel my boundless energy and distract myself from seeking solace and self-connection. Does that mean that I'm unqualified to provide at least a minimal amount of mentorship and guidance to Panda?

I am, afterall, a trained professional. How scary is that?

Deal or No Deal?

Emma Dinzebach — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 22:40:00 GMT

I promised myself when I started this blog that I was not going to write about my flourishing dating life, but considering it consumes approximately 66% of my free time and 96% of my rumination, it was really only a matter of time. Then yesterday I was hanging out with my ex-boyfriend's ex-teammate, went back to his apartment, walked into his room and reality hit me in the face in the form of a bed-on-the-floor. Yes, as in mattress on the floor.

Frantically, I searched my brain for my dealbreaker list. When I found it, I noticed that there was not a bed-on-the-floor clause, and several shots of Patron enabled me to ignore the BOF (bed-on-the-floor) and proceed with my, um our, business. But this morning when I jovially told my friend about it, she said, "Emma, honey, that is a dealbreaker." Wait, so no deal? At this point the deal was basically done, but it lead me to two thoughts: 1) Are there any dealbreakers that I would be willing to compromise? and 2) Seriously, buy a bed buddy.

Dinzebach Dating Dealbreakers-IV

1. Has those mammoth headphones and hangs them on the side of his jeans on the date. I appreciate sound quality, but put those away dude.

2. Men who don't eat red meat. My brother always says, "Guys who don't eat red meat; I don't trust them."

3. Eating disorders.

4. Republicans.

5. Not a "dog person."

6. Goes to the gym a lot but isn't actually athletic.

7. Lacks creativity (in any capacity).

8. Doesn't watch football.

9. Illiterate.

10. Racist and/or has braces.

Friday night I went on a date. When I showed up, only seven minutes late I might add, my eyes went straight to his feet because: I'm not into Sketchers, Adidas Superstars, clogs, Doc Martins, man-Uggs or shoes that resemble orthodics. And Crocs are the 11th dealbreaker. Not a soul on earth looks good in Crocs. His were acceptable. Later, he said his last meal before he dies by lethal injection for a crime he didn't commit, because i would never date a death-row prison mate, would be pizza, a bacon burger or a pastrami sandwich -- all acceptable, manly answers. Although I find the word 'pastrami' vile.

He played soccer in college (check) and apparently majored in art (four stars for creativity). He informed me that he enjoys football season better when he's not playing fantasy. Um, did someone tell him to say that or is it one of key make-a-girl-fall-in-love-with-me lines? (In any case, check). He has a dog (check), lacks an eating disorder (check), and as far as I can tell is neither racist nor currently wearing braces (double check). He was headphone free (phew), and passed my secret test. There were no visible characteristics of a mood or personality disorder; but he is apparently an artist of some sort, so the jury's out on that one. He did, however, receive extra credit for volunteering in developing countries on more than one occasion.

But, and I wouldn't still be writing if there weren't a but, I sensed reservation. Rather than creating an air of mystery, it made me feel overexposed and ignited my urge to flight or get really drunk. I couldn't find freedom of spontaneity, and I desperately searched his soul for some sign that he was either falling deeply in love or that he just wasn't that into me. Then my spaz faze passed, thank god, and at the end of the night I was mentally exhausted but hopeful. When he kissed me and tucked me into a cab, I felt reassured, confident about his checks and check pluses, and sleepily blissful.

So how is it that the Friday-Night-Emma, sizing up and checking off every minute detail, ended up in a bed-on-the-floor late Sunday afternoon?

And more importantly, is it a deal or no deal?

"As for bed-on-the-floor...I think that is only acceptable in several instances (1) You just moved and haven't had a chance to buy a new bed (2) You have a lofted apartment, so your bed is on the loft part (not sure if that counts as the floor) or (3) You are still in college - even then, still kind of weird. Don't the metal frames/box spring come free with the mattress???" -Allison Greene

There goes my justification that my ex-boyfriend had a BOF. Per Greene point duex, his was lofted, so apparently that doesn't count. Foiled!

As far as I can tell, he doesn't have any other dealbreakers. He had a pile of The New Yorker magazines on the floor (can and does read: check), and he's not a Republican -- although I didn't know at first and skipped over iPhone pictures of me rocking an Obama shirt and platform stilettos (check -- to him voting for change, not my outfit). There are no visible signs of an eating disorder (thank god), and from what I can tell he plays like every sport (check). He gets loads of fun points and extra credit for playing the guitar and admitting that he likes to fish. However, he should not expect me to fish because I'm entirely to impatient to fish, dislike the smell of fishing and feel bad for the fish. If someone asked me to guess, I would say he does not wear those gargantuan headphones on his daily commute. My memory fails to recall what shoes he had on, but I may have forgotten to look because he is so smiley (a plus) and I had been cocktailing at brunch.

Am I to revise Dinzebach Dating Dealbreakers-IV to V or can a person be good enough that the BOF could be overlooked, in which case it's not a dealbreaker?

And lastly, if I proceed with deeper introspection, I'm bound to find it's actually my reckless decision-making skills that lead me to these dilemmas in the first place, therefore, the rules are necessary to serve as guidelines for my often thoughtless behavior and curb my desire for attention.

Elaine: "Are you going to wear that all the time?"

Puddy: "All signs point to yes."

Matzo Balls and Bazookas

Emma Dinzebach — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 19:56:00 GMT

I'm brunching in the East Village late Sunday afternoon, sipping a mimosa and scraping the cheese off my huevos rancheros in a lame attempt to cut calories, when one of my friends casually brings up the increasingly colloquial topic of automatic weapons. "I mean, why would we need automatic weapons?" she chirps, as I enviously eye her adding cheese to her eggs. "Why would anyone need an automatic weapon? Not for hunting. You know, someone should really tell her that you can't eat moose after you shoot it with a bazooka. It's inedible...actually, you can't even find the moose!" She adamantly informs us. We all nod casually in agreement.

"Who wants to eat a moose anyway?" I ask, squinting into the sunlight and trying to generate a picture of a moose in my clouded, hung over brain.

"Fine, a bear!" she settles on, as if this is a better dinner option.

"Unless you just want bear ash with dinner. You can sprinkle him over your baked potato," my other friend suggests, hesitating before she carefully places a forkful of ketchup smeared home fries into her mouth.

"Mix it with your matzo ball soup!" exclaims another, and I note to self that you know a conversation is steering off course when you start making glorified Jewish food references.

"It always has to go back to the matzo balls, doesn't it?"

"What else is there? I mean, really?" she says matter of factly.

We all nod in agreement, and my friend flips her long blonde hair over one shoulder, preparing to backtrack to her original point and highlighting that Jews have perfected pointless diversions. "But I mean, seriously, WHAT is a normal person going to do with a bazooka? Bazooka's are for war...like World War II! That's all. I don't want to walk out of my front door thinking that my neighbor may incinerate me because my 16-year-old is a shitty driver and gave him a midnight lawn job."

"Did you just say 'lawn job'? That's great. What I'd give for a..."

"Yes that's 'lawn job' with an 'L' and a 'W'!"

"Right, um I'm failing to see the differentiation...and I wasn't thinking...whatever. Maybe you should just teach your stupid kid how to drive better?" I say, antagonizing.

"Oh, gotcha. It's my fault I'm blown to shreds on my front porch. Sorry, I got confused for a second," she argues.

"But honestly, you know who should for sure NOT have an automatic weapon? Dick Cheney," chimes in my other friend, mute and dazed up to this point. She looks at each of us for reassurance to the most factual opinion statement to date.

"Don't they tell you to wear neon, like, bright colors when you're hunting so your friend doesn't shoot you in the face?" I don't know who is talking because I just heard "shoot you in the face," and I'm frantically searching my memory files to find one that confirms Cheney's friend was shot in the face. I'm coming up short.

"Wait he shot his friend in the face?!" This is me, desperate for confirmation.

"That only works if you aren't a hundred and ten. And seriously, who the hell would want to go hunting with Dick Cheney after he shot his last hunting partner in the face."

"Really, it was in the face?! That's amazing." This is me, again, flabbergasted at my defective memory.

"Didn't he shoot two dudes he went hunting with?"

"Yeah, he shot them both in the face!" Somehow I went from failure to confirm the face shot to bold reassurance that not one, but two, of Dick Cheney's cronies met the shot-in-the-face fate.

"Nooooooo....!" I insist, doubled over in hysterical laughter, which provokes a coughing fit. Now we're all picturing Cheney's second soon-to-be gunshot victim shaking in his boots, already terrified of being mistaken for a quail or deer or whatever then "BANG!" - shot to the face! That's really not funny. But I think, and someone correct me if I'm wrong here because I'm in a hurry and have no time to Wikipedia, that the last time a Vice President shot someone was when Aaron Burr shot Alexander Hamilton. Poor Hamilton died. To my knowledge that was an actual duel; although the legality of dueling at the time was in transition and Burr was tried but acquitted. (This part I'm pretty sure about.) If Cheney's incident was a duel, his buddy was certainly unaware and ill-prepared, so in that case, the dude should NOT have worn neon colors.

Cheney wasn't tried for shooting his friend in the face; although if he were, I think that like Burr, he would have been acquitted. Cheney's incident was an accident. He shot a dude because he's old, has bad eyesight, shaky hands and neurofibrillary tangles. Anyway, a sitting Vice President wouldn't shoot a man. In all honesty, the majority of Americans are a peaceful people who avoid duels and face-shootings. Hell, I even tolerate heavy metal on an occasional Sunday afternoon, which happened to be this Sunday afternoon because Thompson Square Park thinks a great way to kick off your week is to watch a heroine junkie wheeled away on a stretcher while a kiddie scream band blows out your ear drums. But I applaud their, um, courage and am generally open and accepting of Bob Kreutz's favorite phrase "Different strokes for different folks." However, when it comes to automatic weapons, I'm going to have to go with a firm NO. You have to draw the line somewhere because handcuffing someone to a bed or adorning your entire apartment with bobble head dolls is all fun and games until someone's friend gets shot in the face -- and in the case of automatic weapons, when someone's friend is instantaneously reduced to ash.

So, in conclusion, taking preventative measures, like not allowing automatic weapons, might prevent extreme Vice Presidential accidents. Unless the Vice President creates the accident by allowing the automatic weapons...in which case, the Vice President would actually be the accident.

"This s*#! is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!" -Gwen Stefani

Emma Dinzebach — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 16:45:00 GMT

It is 7:50 a.m. on a sunny hump-day morning in New York City, and I am stopped at my neighborhood banana stand relentlessly protesting to the vendor in an effort to buy just two bananas rather than the required "bunch." He is not letting up to save his soul...and neither am I. Now I'm trying for just three bananas. I'm going away tomorrow and what on earth am I going to do with a five banana bunch, which is the smallest I can find. A man comes up behind me and in a damp French accent declares, "I will split your bananas with you." I turn around to find a man, who I estimate to be in his early-sixties and about 5'2, standing behind me smiling.
"Are you sure?" I ask to make sure that he actually likes bananas and isn't just using my desperate banana situation as an opportunity to prey on me.

"Yes, I am also buying bananas and need only three," he assures me. A banana split? Marvelous!

"Oh my god, thank you sir," I reply politely, relieved that I don't have to carry a whole bunch of bananas through Penn Station and on the LIRR to Great Neck, the end point of my Wednesday morning commute. He says that he is happy to buy a pretty lady a couple bananas, but assures me that he is not making a pass. His wife and son are currently in Paris as his wife is on assignment writing a piece for Vogue. And with that, he has my undivided attention. (If this bit of information was intentionally used as a lure, then: a) It totally worked, and b) He is brilliant.) As it turns out, he actually is brilliant...

"Where are you from?" I blurt out because my curiosity cannot contain itself for more than 2.2 minutes.
"Casablanca, originally," he replies, "but I have lived all over France and moved to the states about thirty years ago."

"What do you do?" I ask, conscious that this is my third question. You should always ask a man what he does third so as not to sound rude if he is indeed very successful and to be sure you haven't wasted much time conversing with him should you find yourself unsatisfied with his response. Someone taught me this.

"I am an artist. I have had a studio in Soho, just down the street, for twenty-five years," he explains, pointing west down Grand Street.

"Really? I will have to come by and check it out," I say, comfortably aware that I have just invited myself to a complete stranger's studio.

"What do you do?" he retorts. And I explain that I work at Make-A-Wish and come fall we are having an art auction and would be honored to have his consult. Not to worry! I have not forgotten about his wife the writer, and I add that I aspire to write...well, I write, but I aspire to write well...and here I humbly stumble over my words because I have limited practice verbalizing my passion. For a moment my confidence falters, and he keenly observes me, carefully choosing his response.

"I am close friends with the editor of XYZ magazine, and I should most certainly introduce you to him. Even if you don't like him, you may like one of his friends and will make many contacts through him. Let me give you my card." He hands me his card. "You may Google my name," he says like I need permission to do this. "And please give me a call so I can arrange for you to meet some people. I am very well connected with both writers and artists," he states unfaltering. I smile.

"My name is Emma," I offer so as to avoid being named the banana girl.

"Hi Emma. I'm Jacob," he replies even though I am holding his card with his full name on it.

"Jacob, I have to go to Long Island and am going to miss to the train if we don't start walking." I just met this man, so I don't demand that he walk me to the subway, but he does because he senses this is what I want. And for the next two blocks we talk excitedly about the city, the people you meet, and we agree that there simply are no coincidences.

Outside the subway entrance he says, "Emma, call me in the next ten days. After ten days my wife and son will be home, and she will require every last bit of my undivided attention. But call me, so I can set you up with [a bunch of names and companies I cannot remember]. They will be thrilled to have an intelligent, pretty young woman around." (Remember, this is all very romanticized with the French accent.) "And you may not meet the right writer but maybe you'll meet your husband. And then you'll have a big house in Connecticut with lots of children! And maybe one day you'll walk in on your husband in bed with someone, and it will all be because of the bananas!" He exclaims, smiling mischievously.

"JAAAACOB!" I protest then bid him a quick farewell and fly down the stairs to the subway.

I miss my train. The next train I can take does not match up with the bus schedule, and I will have to wait approximately 15 minutes. I tell myself time is a small price to pay for such a wonderful morning. There are no coincidences! I remind myself. Reassuring me that my serendipitous meeting shall indeed play a positive role in my life, the universe thoughtfully stalls the bus. Upon arriving to New Hyde Park train station, the fashionably late bus is there waiting for fashionably late me. Viola!

If You Want to go to Heaven...

Emma Dinzebach — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 01:08:00 GMT

...sell your SUV.

Alas -- the days of eco-friendliness being a mantra mainly chanted by "liberals" has passed. Thanks to Pope Benedict XVI and our environmentally conscious clergy at the Vatican, polluting the earth is officially a sin. The Vatican itself has made many efforts to make their space "green," and in a seperate article specifically on climate change, the Vatican encouraged worldwide participation of eco-friendly measures by Catholics and non-Catholics alike. So, I encourage you to measure your actions in the likeness of Christ and reduce your personal carbon footprint. Afterall, Jesus didn't need to drive a Range Rover.

I have to go look for my Birkenstocks now.

Love,

Emma Dilemma

Author's Note: This was originally an email sent to a select few on March 10, 2008. In fact, it was the positive feedback from this email that inspired this blog and is posted here in response to multiple fan requests.

"There is no substitute for victory." -Douglas MacArthur

Emma Dinzebach — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 19:12:00 GMT

Mmmmmm, the sweet and succulent taste of victory! Like everything you love to touch, taste and feel simultaneously overwhelming your senses. You smile. You quiver. And you wildly release a cry unmatched by any other human sound! You have worked your whole life for this one moment, and now you know why: Victory is Ecstasy!

Not that I would know. I have never won anything in my entire life. Oh, take that back. My junior year of high school, my CYC basketball team won the St. Louis CYC City Championship. Um yes, I was actually on the team! That was a great feeling, but I hardly worked my entire life for it. In fact, it was my first season ever playing basketball; a season I opened by, first time on the court, dribbling the ball full speed (I am quick) towards my own, wide-open net. And I shot! And I missed! So watching the Stanley Cup victory last night, I wondered, what does victory feel like? And what does real victory entail?

My nearest and dearest know that I have been in love with the Redwings since fourth grade. Steve Yzerman was the love of my life, and I proved it by memorizing everything about him from his May 9th birthday to the small scar above the right side of his lip. In my closet, a gleaming gold hanger held my coveted Yzerman jersey. At one point, I proudly owned nearly 100 Yzerman hockey cards. I kept them in a binder under my bed. I currently have about 20 in my top drawer that I just can't stand to part with, protected in those little plastic cases. My best childhood friend, Izzy, and I would spend countless afternoons signing our future names -- mine, "Emma Yzerman", and hers "Izzy Noonan." (At the time, there was a Blues player named Brian Noonan. He retired in 2001, never reaching Yzerman's level of success. I clearly knew how to pick them from a young age.) "Emma Yzerman" was also a player I created on NHL '96. I meticulously adjusted the skill level so she was slightly better than her husband. Obviously.

The obsession died down over the years. Slowly, my favorite color faded from red to pink, and I moved onto guys I could actually obtain, but the Redwings remained my favorite sports team of all time. (Sorry FredBird!) Then, as if God was eternally tying me to Hockeytown, USA, my dear friend and former boyfriend signed with the Redwings.

Brett was my senior prom date -- flew from Chicago for the occasion. We dated for a little while before we both went away to college, and after a couple year of animosity, we rekindled our...friendship. (Largely due to the fact that our friends married each other.) We have stayed in touch, literally, over the years, and I try to see him in his Wings jersey when he's in the metro area. When he comes out of the locker room, I still see Arizona jeans and an Old Navy t-shirt walking through the jetway when you used to be able to meet people at the gate, and the things that come to mind are:
1. He has really soft skin.
2. He is an exceptional water skier -- although somewhat scary to ski beside.
3. He doesn't over analyze things.
4. He always helps out and will pitch in without being asked.
5. He laughs a lot.
6. He sings in the car.

Last night, as a Redwing, Brett experienced the ultimate, unparalleled victory for which I am extremely super proud. Brett, like the rest of his team, works hard and deserves victory-induced ecstasy. He makes it seem effortless and handles his talent with modesty and poise, all the while maintaining his Lebda-ness...in that Brett Lebda is truly victorious.

When I woke up this morning, I decided two things: 1) I was going to write a post about Brett's Stanley Cup victory in his honor and 2) Like the Redwings did last year, I too would retire #19 and replace it with #22 as my new favorite hockey player.

Here's to Hockeytown.

"There's not enough years underneath this belt, for me to admit the way that I felt." -Seven Mary Three

Emma Dinzebach — Tue, 27 May 2008 18:56:00 GMT

I’m on the train on the way home from our Nation’s capital, stopped because the train ahead of us has broken down, and we have to take on all of their passengers so they can clear the broken train and two trains worth of passengers can get to New York City sometime after midnight. The poor people on the broken train! Who knows how long they have been stuck here, wherever we are, thinking they should be at home in bed by now or soon after so to get a good night’s sleep before Monday morning hits us all like a ton of bricks. But instead transferring trains in the dead of night in the middle of… wherever we are.

Announcements of train-transferring have fallen on my deaf ears because I’m having writer’s remorse regarding my Wednesday afternoon blog post. Thoughtfully, the shy twentyish-year-old guy next to me gently nudged my elbow to inform me of the reason for our stop. I must looked confused because I am confused, but not about my train stopping.

Poking fun at my inability to arrive on time has proven funny but also truly easy to write about. When people asked me how long it took me to write my first post, I lied and said an hour. It took fifteen minutes…maybe. Today is Sunday, May 18, at 11:07 p.m., and I’m not sure if or when I’ll post this because the dissonant feeling I have regarding my light-hearted, ditzy blog post is much harder to deconstruct. In as few words as possible lies my meager attempt...

* * *

Find a Sunday, May 18^th New York Times, turn to page 8 in International Report, and tell me what you see. I spy a picture of a mother and child who have reportedly been void of electricity and clean water for days. To the right, a quote that reads “For lonely survivors, the threat of disease and forced labor,” referring to child cyclone survivors. Then (and by then I mean first, but didn’t want to admit it) I see an advertisement that says “Discover the wonder.” atop a bright indulgent photo ofa cute young boy next to an even cuter bottle-nosed dolphin. Recap: On the same page in the most prestigious newspaper in the country, a picture of a mother and baby who are in need of food and water adjacent to an advertisement depicting a young boy, the same age as those threatened by disease and forced labor, and a dolphin swimming in gleeful bliss.

And in true white Anglo-Saxon, ultra-privileged nature, I think of myself.

How can I write about buttery leather bags in Bergdorf, when the sleeping Burmese mother on page 8 of “All the News That’s Fit to Print” attempts life in a shelter in an area that hasn’t seen water, electricity or nutritional relief since the cyclone? Am I so shallow that my entrance into the world of cyberspace, however late it may seem to my peers, is sparkling with triviality?

Without a marketing strategists at places like The Atlantis, the New York Times may only be able to print some of the news that’s fit to print, leaving us unfamiliar with the orphan-crisis in Myanmar. (Although being viscerally moved by the global social state, we would hypothesize as much). I understand the circle, but I am confused about the balance. Shopping is considered doing my part to stimulate the economy, and as a baseball-loving, eh-hem Cardinals-loving, patriot I too want to do my part to boost my U.S. in the global economic market. In addition, the United States, as a supreme leader, has a responsibility to help countries less fortunate and certainly need capital to engage in disaster relief efforts. (Particularly considering we’ve spent every last cent on...)

(Oh, I’m in New Jersey. Duh.)

Econ mavens unite! Is that how it works? Should I continue to “help” our economy despite the cognitive dissonance it produces when, wearing Nike running shorts and holding a Starbucks latte, I browse international tragedies in the Sunday paper? How am I supposed to tame my aggravation to a smooth emotional state? And more importantly, which portion of my money am I supposed to give to help natural disasters that leave people at the dead bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and which portion should quench the thirst of our economy so that, under proper administration and harmonious idealism, we can help others?

This is the dilemma I am faced with on a post-paper reading Sunday night trek home from the District. I’m not sure there is an answer, but for all purposes egocentric, I have reached a most nebulous conclusion. Maybe I write about lateness, um earliness, so that the cartographer bogged down crafting relief maps all day and night can treat herself to humor with a side of raw ridiculousness at the end of a natural-disaster infested week.

Ear-ly: adverb, adjective, noun - before the usual or appointed time; ahead of time.

Emma Dinzebach — Wed, 14 May 2008 15:17:00 GMT

Earliness (related form - noun) is a word I tend to shy away from. Like a smoker talking about healthy pink lungs or a couch potato discussing marathon training, I avoid the topic of earliness not only because, in adjective form, it doesn't describe me, but also because I don't like "early." I don't really do "early."

Yesterday afternoon I'm dreamily feeling up each and every buttery leather handbag in Bergdorf, when I realize that it's 12:55 p.m. ET, and I have just enough time to get lunch and be back at my office before my 1:30 interview with my potential summer intern. Reluctantly, I put down the (bag) and go to Printon 56 for a spinach salad then back to my office. I arrive in my office at 1:14 and upon exiting the elevator, I am instantly horrified. The potential intern, who is supposed to meet me at 1:30, is in the small conference room chatting away with my boss. From the look of things, she has been here for at least five minutes, likely longer. They both turn to me, and she waves through the glass wall an annoying, "Hi, I'm here, and IIIIIIIII'm early! Early to show you that I really want to intern here! And early because I'm responsible and eager! Early! Early! Early!" Vomit.

To be fair, the potential intern is a lovely, smart, ambitious young lady who I am happy to have as a replacement for my less detail-oriented, somewhat snippy former intern. She is wide-eyed and curious and appears to have retained some of the glowing innocence that I haven't seen since I was 16. Okay 14. For her part, she's oblivious to my aversion to all things early, with the exception of early a.m. rising, which to my partial-dismay has creeped it's way into my life. (I wondered why I never see the parking lot attendant on my running route anymore. I figured he got a new job, just to discover that I now run before he gets to work. Again, vomit.)

More importantly though are the reasons I hate early:
1) Early people always have to wait, and I don't like waiting.
2) Intentional earliness is rude. If a designated time has been determined, one would only arrive early if you want to make the other person feel bad.
"Have you been here long?"
"Oh, only about 20 minutes."
"Oh, thanks for getting here early and making me feel like an asshole."
3) If someone can be early all the time, then they don't have enough to do. My boss has graciously accepted my lateness, because he knows that I have a mountain of tasks I'm set to accomplish on a given day.
4) Arriving to the airport early is COMPLETELY POINTLESS! The earlier you arrive, the longer you will have to wait. You don't miss your flight people! If you are there and the plane is there, they make sure you get on the plane. It's their JOB.

Acceptable forms of earliness:
1) Sample Sales. (Or any Sales in general). My mom and I once sat outside Nordstrom, Fashion Valley in San Diego and helped ourselves to coffee and donuts provided exclusively for the early sale-seekers.
2) If you aim to be drunk when the other person arrives. Acceptable.

Being on time is obviously best. But if you are taking me to dinner, and some readers likely are, then be advised to tell me the reservations are for 30 minutes prior to the actual time. Unless of course you aim to be drunk when I arrive, then you will have plenty of time to drink while you wait, Mr. Early Pants.

Under Construction

Emma Dinzebach — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 15:33:00 GMT

Hm. I'm still figuring this out. But I've got a picture.
Your graciousness is appreciated.