Tag: Stavros

The Answer Feathers, Part Two

To read The Answer Feathers, Part One, click here.

Earlier in the day, I had listened to another Oprah podcast with the author of Produced by Faith, DeVon Franklin, where the Hollywood success felt so strongly about “bathroom moments.” He was referring to the scene in The Pursuit of Happyness where Will Smith is sleeping with his child in a washroom and prays desperately to God for help and the answer comes shortly after. It stayed with me. I don’t like asking God for this kinda help unless I’m really struggling.

After Stavros left, I took out the Answer Feathers. I read the instructions. I looked at the feathers, which were both variations on brown. I wanted to make time to treat them with the respect and mindfulness they deserved. You don’t have time for this now, I kept telling myself.

I was expecting dinner guests so I ran around the house picking things up and tidying. I ordered the takeout and mentally planned to pick up eggs and orange juice for my morning guest, Monsieur Magique. I washed my sheets and began to change my bed. Did I even have pillowcases big enough for my new pillows?

I passed the Answer Feathers again. And then I decided I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to know yet. It was too fun, the not knowing. And yet my insides were getting chewed up. How would I ever choose? Someone was going to get hurt! Was I being true to myself? Didn’t I already know? Why was I adding confusion to the mix?

I went to sort out the upstairs bathroom to make sure there were towels and toilet paper, when I came across a pair of silver feather earrings I’d forgotten about and absent-mindedly put them on. Then I literally had a bathroom moment in the bathroom. Overwhelmed by not knowing which man to choose, I prayed to God for the answer. That whichever man was the one I was supposed to be with would become clear to me. I’m not religious, I don’t believe in organized religion, mostly, but I’m spiritual AF. And I do believe in the life force or source energy. And since I was brought up super Christian Orthodox, when I need it to REALLY work for me, it takes the shape of “God.” I’ve come to accept this, and that my idea of God cannot be defined.

That’s when I noticed that one of my feather earrings was missing (it’s still missing, days later). It had fallen off my ear somehow while I was running around. I tried to avoid the Answer Feathers, but a decision was made in spite of my waffling. I had a sign. I took a deep breath and continued on with my day. By morning, I would know what to do.

A group of former colleagues came over for takeout and wine and giggles. We went around the table giving updates on work and personal lives. It was funny and touching sometimes. We had been through a lot together, the seven of us, and I was glad to spend time with them. But when it got to my turn, I told them they had to leave at 10:30, because Monsieur Magique was coming for a sleepover. That’s when they decided to linger. “I’ll take that tea you were offering!” Gah!

I realized he’d be there soon, so went down to quickly brush my teeth and touch up my face. I’d kept my makeup natural and was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but as I had made a point to get my hair cut and nails done, I was feeling pretty damn good. Underneath it all, I had a secret: I was wearing a mauve bralette and tanga set that I’d carefully chosen. My ex-husband used to freak out if I dared to put on lingerie, saying that my expectations for sex were so obvious, as though I were wearing a sandwich board that screamed, “Have sex with me!” that it turned him off. And yet if I hid the fact that I wanted to have sex, we just mostly wouldn’t, sooooo… Anyway, bygones…

When I came out of the bathroom, I realized Monsieur Magique was here. I came up to find my handsome Frenchman sitting at the dining room table, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling women, who were all clearly adoring his accent and his dapper way. “Hi sweetie,” he said, noticing me, “You look great!” We kissed awkwardly because I wanted to plant one on his lips and he was trying to give me a French kiss — not with tongue, but double cheek. “Did you get a haircut? I’ve never seen you with straight hair! I got a haircut too!” OMG, how do you not fall for this enthusiastic man, who notices details?

My guests finally left, albeit apprehensively. I could tell they wanted some more Magique in their lives too. Who could blame them? I locked the door, turned around and stared into the face of the sun. Remember when I said I’d written in my journal after our first date, “The sunshine in his heart greets the sunshine in mine?” There it was! His stress, palpable on the phone earlier in the week, seemed to have dissipated for the moment. I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him. “What?” he asked, looking at me with playful curiosity. “You’re just so…” how to describe it to him? He beams!

We played the Lionel Ritchie record I picked up after our last dance-a-thon here, went out to the porch so he could have a smoke, and then he suggested we play a game of some sort. We played one of my kids’ games, smiling and laughing at my competitiveness. Then he taught me a French card game, which was like Euchre but more complicated, because French. Have you seen that video of the cab driver who tries to explain counting to 100 in French? Hilarious. He mentioned a big tournament with all his friends in two weeks and suggested that maybe I should come. The thought of that intimidates the hell out of me right now, so I pretended not to hear clearly. Card came I don’t know well and a room full of people I don’t know speaking a language I can’t speak fluently? Gah!

My brain was saying, “Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, SEX!” all night, and I was really hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the vibe. Around 1 a.m. it became clear that his brain was saying the same thing. “OK, shall we go down to your dungeon?” he asked, grabbing my shoulders. He pounced on my bed and laid back casually. “So…” he smirked, “How many sleepovers have you had here?”

“You mean NOT with my daughter? Zero. You’re the first.”

“Really? Well, I’m honoured.”

We made out for a bit and I can’t totally recall how the front of his jeans opened up, but whoa Nelly! My room was gently lit and we were sober. “You’re not wearing underwear!?!” I exclaimed. “No, I haven’t worn underwear since I was… 17? Only when I wear a suit.” I was so freakin’ excited that as I tried to pull off his jeans while kneeling at the foot of the bed, I completely fell off. Like a sideways somersault. Boom. We laughed so hard. I was mortified, but he’s so good humoured that the joke went on all night and the next day and I’m still giggling, imagining my Kimmy Schmidt moment.

“It’s not fair that I’m unclothed and you’ve got so much on,” he said. So I got down to my pretty skivvies, and he oohed with appreciation. “Nice,” he said, pulling me close. I raised an eyebrow. “What? Don’t think I didn’t notice. You had your hair done, your nails done. Thank you. It’s appreciated.” Who. Is. This. Man?!

After very good sex, he held me again. We cuddled ALL NIGHT. Again, I didn’t really sleep at first, but I didn’t fret this time. I just smiled at the beauty of it. His snores were quieter and towards the wee hours of the morning, he pulled my face into his chest and purred me to sleep like a cat. I woke up mouth-breathing and drooling all over him, but he didn’t wake up, so I nestled in and went back to sleep.

When it seemed reasonable to try and start the day, he mentioned he was famished. His bedroom has giant south-facing bay windows under a turret, so he wakes to natural light. My basement bedroom is like a Las Vegas casino: there’s no way to know the time. When he commented on the utter dark of my room, I told him it was great for sleeping-in and that he needed it. I made him breakfast while we talked about our breakups in a bit more detail. What worked, what didn’t? We ate and chatted about our kids again. He keeps calling me SuperMom, and I know this is an important quality for him, so I am flattered.

He had asked for chill time earlier in the week, so I suggested we watch A Star is Born in my bed. I told him I was never a TV in the bedroom person, but that my bedroom used to be the family room and the TV stayed. That the only way I learned to fall asleep after nearly two decades of someone sleeping beside me was by watching Downton Abbey each night until I passed out. He looked into my eyes deeply, sympathetically. Then we headed down for… snuggles. (OK hot sex first, then snuggles.) “You’re so easy to be with,” I murmured, “You just know yourself so well.”

“Well I should after all these years,” he quipped. “You’d be surprised at how rare it is,” I responded. He stroked my hair while we watched the movie, which I found hard to watch, so the hair stroking was so comforting. Being a part of a two-artist couple for so long, where one partner’s success overshadowed the other partner’s… where the male partner put down the female partner’s success, because he felt that authenticity mattered most… Where he self-medicated to deal with childhood trauma and the ego… it was tough. But dang that “Shallow” song is good and so are both the actors. It’s just hard for me not to be completely pissed off at Jackson Maine. What I loved about the movie was all the talk about Ally’s nose. It was so key to the story that it was validating for me, a big-nosed girl, to see Bradley Cooper’s character tell her she’s beautiful and that he loves her nose.

Anyway, suffice it to say that watching a romantic movie with a French hottie, who wants nothing but to snuggle you, to be close and touching the entire time, is my idea of total bliss. The movie ended around the time he had to leave for work stuff, so I offered him a quick shower and said that I would resist the urge to climb in with him because I knew he was pressed for time. He came down in a towel, which was hard to resist, and I made it clear that I didn’t want him to leave, but that I understood. He apologized for having to work, thanked me for breakfast and a lovely evening, booked our next date as he always does, and left.

We texted that night as “our song” was performed live and perfectly. To quote the movie’s anthem…

“I’m falling…”

The Answer Feathers, Part One

Last summer, my friend gave me the gift of two feathers for my birthday. These indigenous “answer feathers” are like nature’s magic eight ball. You’re to look at them, feel their energy, think on two things you are choosing between and then choose the feather that speaks to you. Your answer will be clear within a day.

I had a kid-free Saturday, and I’ve gotten so good at curating them to be soul-filling. I wish I could convince my friends who are partnered with kids to do this for themselves more. It’s funny how we think we don’t have the time, because we are always attending to the needs of others, and yet when forced to share the kids by law, BOOM, there’s the time. I began the morning by going to my favourite cafe and took two oat milk lattes and some croissants to my hairdresser’s and we had our usual best time ever. “I was thinking of you and thinking sleek hair,” she said. I told her to go for it, because the last time she did my hair (wild and fuckable), I met Monsieur Magique at the party that changed my destiny.

I bought a reissue of Joni Mitchell’s Blue on vinyl, talked to my mom on the phone while walking to get some sundries, felt the cold winter sunshine on my face. Then I went to visit Gogo of the Witches, to get a pair of gloves I’d left there at her last party. She was in post-coital bliss, having reconnected with an old friend who had turned into a lover the night before, and we had such an awesome connection and discussion as always. I appreciate my big energy, open-hearted romantic friends so much. I ran into her again later and told her she feels like my Saturday elf — with her shockingly red hair and her Rainbow Brite snow suit — that seeing her on one of my free Saturdays almost always guarantees I’m going to have a good weekend. Do you have anyone in your life like that?

Then I went to yoga, where I set my intention to “centre,” because there were rumours of a racist rally in my neighbourhood and I felt that “centre” was the strongest word to dedicate to my community to prevent hate from showing up, while also serving me where I needed to be that busy Saturday (where I had admittedly over-scheduled myself). The rally never happened, so I’m gonna go with “my yoga intention worked,” because I honestly felt some very present vibrations during savasana. Yoga was HARD, a total sweat fest of flow-time, and I needed it to beat my brain into blissful submission, because I had two dates that day. Eek! WTF am I doing?

Monsieur Magique almost always books our next date as we are saying goodbye. When I had flagged that we kept getting drunk and could we have a day date so I could see how I feel about him when sober, he’d enthusiastically said yes to a “playdate” for Sunday of this weekend. But later that night, he’d texted to say he’d had such a fun time with me and might he come over after my dinner guests leave the night before so he could cuddle me in my cold basement bedroom and then start the day together Sunday. Swoon. I knew he’d be working working working, as is his non-dad mode lately due to pressures on his business. So I wasn’t surprised when he texted Saturday morning to explain that unfortunately he’d have to leave at 1pm the next day. He was sincerely apologetic, citing that he knew I’d put some thought into what we might do (I had planned to take him to play a sort of bocce-meets-mini-golf). I told him not to worry, that they were calling for rain and 100 km/hr winds, so I was changing the plan to staying in bed and watching Oscar movies with him. I went to buy new pillows, because MM’s bed is like a goddamn hotel bed, and I wanted that same fluffy feeling. I wanted my first ever man sleeping in my new basement bedroom (!!!) to feel comfortable and cared for.

I listened to an Oprah “Super Soul Conversations” episode on Spiritual Partnerships, while carrying all my stuff to the café where I was supposed to meet Stavros. By the time he arrived, I was good and centred, ready for what might come, knowing full well what I want from a partner. He showed up, dark, playfully brooding as always, a slight smile on his face to see me. We had an intense, intimate conversation, where I was surprised by his honesty and vulnerability. He admitted to being negative and anxious his whole life, a symptom of the way we’d been brought up, which I understood. He explained the breakdown of his marriage to his high school sweetheart, and how much work he’s done on himself to fight his negative thought patterns. He’s medicated for depression, which I respect a lot as my ex never got the medical care he needed for his. Stavros said that he feels a clarity of mind and focus that he never had before, but my red flags were going off big time. I am definitely drawn to him, but can’t help but feel like our timing is off. Like he’s a year behind where I’m at in my journey, and that he is a bit of work still (though he insists he’s not). His natural way is not “sunny.” Is this just another Theo in a better package? Employed steadily, working on himself, aware of his bullshit AND Greek? Honestly, a man that says “therapy” and can speak the language of psychology is pretty hot to me right now.

I told him that I know I want to be someone’s girlfriend eventually, I just don’t know if I can make that decision right now. He responded that he didn’t believe in labels, that the only thing he wants from me is my time. I’ve made it clear that I don’t want to be someone’s sunshine, that I want the sunshine in a man’s heart to greet the sunshine in mine. I can’t be responsible for someone else’s happiness. I tried to help a depressed partner once and it backfired.

Still, Stavros is so damn easy to talk to. Beyond our mother tongue, we share a language of culture, of music and movies. We have a similarly dry sense of humour. I decided I needed to kiss him to see if this was just a friendship. So when he offered to drive me home, I said yes. He put my bags in his car, opened my door for me, and off we went. I told him my funniest stories of working in the film industry (he’s film school grad and had spent some time working at film festivals, on top of his acting experience). I told the story of working on a major Hollywood film and being given the job of watching three hours of porn in the director’s office alone to select a super sexy scene that would ultimately appear in the film. They chose me for the task, because the production manager thought giving the job to my male colleague meant he’d masturbate, so I was the supposedly safer bet. Stavros asked what I did. “Of course I had a wank or three on the director’s couch! It’s not gender-specific! Three HOURS of porn-watching!”

“There’s another way you’re not like any other Greek girl,” he said through impressed laughs. To which I retorted, “I’m not like any girl you’ll ever meet.” A bit cocky of me, I’ll admit.

He managed to get a parking space on my snowy street. “Yay,” I bluffed, “Now you can help me bring my bags to the door!” We went up to my place, not edging past the doorway vestibule (yay for winter boots creating boundaries). “Wow,” he exclaimed looking around at the kid art and the photos and the books, “Your place is so full!” I reminded him that I didn’t start with a blank canvas like he did, that all I had to do was fill in the spaces Theo left when he took his comic books and concert posters. “I hate comic books,” he said, trying to be funny. A red flag. I probed him on why and he back-tracked a bit. We chatted until it got awkward. “Are you gonna kiss me or what?” I asked. “First I’m going to hug you,” he said. And the hug was intimate and wonderful. And then we kissed, a bit formally at first, but then it got hot pretty fast. He held my face with both hands and kissed me passionately. DAMN! I was really hoping for a bad kiss so I could call this already.

“I’m going to let you lead,” he said, putting all his trust in me, making me feel guilt at the duplicitousness of dating two men without telling any of them. It’s my control habit energy showing up — the need to feel like I’m the one who gets to make this decision. Sigh. It feels very unlike me to have secrets at all, though I realize that having two men keeps me distant and mysterious enough that I’m not overly available to either one, creating a desire that wouldn’t exist if I was my usual “dog greeting his owner when he gets home from work” excited and overly loving self.

To be fair, the common thing I hear when talking to others is, “Everyone should assume that everyone is dating everyone, unless you’ve had a conversation otherwise.” I do like this, because then it takes the pressure off. You don’t need to make anything a THING until some time has passed and it organically makes sense to. And yet, when I was out with my coach and biz partner, Rock n’ Roll Cowgirl, the other day, she asked if Monsieur Magique knew about Stavros. When I said no, citing the modern day rule above, she said, “Yeah, but somehow I don’t think he would like it if he knew.” I agree with her. He’s romantic and a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to matters of the heart. If I hadn’t been so surprised by all the similarities between Stavros and myself that I swiped right and messaged, I wouldn’t be in this situation. And I know fully well that beyond the curiosity of it, I did it to protect myself and pace myself from going all in with Monsieur Magique too quickly. So here I am.

“Should I text you less?” He looked a bit hurt when I said yes, it was a bit much, that I wasn’t getting anything done during the day, not paying attention in meetings, due to our constant text banter. “I mean, I could also just not be so responsive,” I said. He touched my collar bone and then we kissed again with such feeling that I was grateful that lazy me hadn’t made her bed that morning. “OK, you have to leave, I have a dinner party to prepare for,” I told him. We made a plan to see a movie on Thursday. I closed the door and said, “Fuuuuuuuck. What now?”

To be continued…

Well this complicates things…

It started out as a lark. I’d popped back into OK Cupid in December when my therapist suggested I could make time to swipe right a few times before the holidays if I really wanted. She wanted me to remember that anything could happen, that I didn’t have to put arbitrary timelines on starting to seek something new, that I should embrace the moment.

So I did some swiping and then promptly forgot about the app. In my mind, I’d deleted it. But then every now and again, an email notification would appear in my Gmail. And I’d screen grab them (because they are hilariously bad more times than not) and share them on my Instagram stories. Then one day, I got one that piqued my curiosity completely.

“Well, from one media professional to another, hello.”

The message was from Stavros, a name I instantly recognized to belong to a fellow Greek like me. What are the chances? We work in the same industry and we have the same ethnicity… come on!

“Well, from one Greek to another, yassou!” I replied.

Our text exchanges were initially not great, but I gleaned that he’s a TV producer and sometimes actor, and the father of two. I didn’t feel like he asked me enough questions about myself. Or rather, he didn’t know how to volley conversation over text to keep it going. I’d wake up to a “Psst” — what do you want me to do with that? I’m not a cat! Do some inquiring, otherwise all you want is my attention lavished on you and you have to earn that!

I also detest the apps. They’re a necessary evil. I don’t like how someone can see when you’re on there or when the last time you checked in was. I don’t even know why I asked him to take it to text. But I gave him my number (and one other guy, but that’s another story), told him that I had a weekend to myself so he wouldn’t hear from me until Sunday, and then deleted my profile. I have Frenchie, I don’t need further complications.

I messaged Stavros that Sunday. I know why. Part curiosity, part “OH MY GOD I HAVE FEELINGS FOR FRENCHIE!” You see, I don’t trust myself yet. I am not convinced I know my own heart. I’m too romantic, too idealistic, and too eager to have an eligible person take me off this dating ride. Plus, I have some red flags about Frenchie/Monsieur Magique and I need some objectivity around him, because he’s so damn dynamic and confident. Can I build a life with a smoking, drinking, Frenchman who can go days without checking in on me? I long for banter over text, which is maybe ridiculous, but is something that makes me happy. I have super eclectic musical tastes — can I build a life with someone who likely won’t go to indie rock concerts with me? I know a lot of this is form identity, but while we are in human bodies, we should ideally be with someone who not only makes us feel good, but who also wants to do the kinds of things with you that you love doing, no? Anyway, this needs validation in terms of a judgment on Frenchie. He does like to do a lot of things I like to do. And maybe edgy indie rock types are my past and, as such, should not be my present or future.

Stavros was glad to hear from me and we texted back and forth, getting a sense of each other without ever having met. Online dating lacks that magic “lock eyes across the room” spark that is so damn great. On Wednesday I was supposed to go out with Guy #3 (another story), but he cancelled last minute and I found myself free. I thought about going to the movies alone — something I have yet to do. Monsieur Magique was out of town on business. But then I found myself texting Stavros. “Long shot, but I’m unexpectedly free tonight. Want to meet up for a drink or a movie?”

“Long shot might pay off. What time were you thinking?”

And that’s how I met Stavros. He was waiting for me in the cafe I had chosen for its cute decor and cosy lighting, when I arrived exactly on-time (which is considered late by people who are never late, AKA not me). He had made reservations, something he reiterated at the end of the date, to say they’d denied him but when he explained his situation, they made it work. I appreciate this tenacity; there’s something to it.

He stood up, but having never met before, I didn’t go in for a hug or a cheek kiss. To be totally honest, I didn’t think I was going to like him at all, something he also said to me later that night over text. There’s this inherent bias that intellectual/artsy Greeks have about the average Greek. And we both assumed that the other would be more traditional. So I was surprised when HOURS went by, the two of us talking easily and making each other laugh through sarcasm. Stavros described himself as a bit of a Larry David (Curb Your Enthusiasm is one of my favourite shows).

There is, of course, the obvious — coming from a very similar experience of growing up Greek in North America means we share a language beyond our mother tongue. That we both inherently understand some of the childhood experience of the other, the dynamic in our families and what it’s like to grow up ethnic but not racialized and yet still feeling like you didn’t fit in. There’s the fact that we both dealt with it similarly, by exploring the arts and media and using that as an escape. But that’s where it stops. He married his high school sweetheart, and by the sounds of it, he has not really been with anyone since.

Turns out I liked him. A lot. There was something so easy about it.

Pros: He’s funny. We have a similar sense of humour. He dresses well (he had on great shoes) and I enjoyed making him laugh. Those laughs were hard-won. We like the same kinds of music and movies so there’s loads to talk about and share there. He is really into me and not afraid to share that. We have similar tastes in the arts we consume. He is a communicator. We have a few friends in common. That’s all I know so far.

Red flags: He’s a bit of a downer in that George Constanza way. Self-deprecating. Eeyore-esque? He hasn’t put himself out there for the past 2.5 years, not really. He prefers to stay home alone. He doesn’t exercise. (Frenchie swims and plays tennis and does winter sports.) He’s Greek so he probably has a hairy arse… (So does Frenchie — I mean I could get used to it, but my preference is a smooth bum… WHAT? Men can police women’s body hair, I think it’s fine to say I have preferences!) He doesn’t seem to have a life when his kids aren’t with him or he’s not at work. Unlike me, he hasn’t learned to fill his time with interests that take him out of the home. I don’t think he sleeps much and then he fuels himself on coffee. My spidey sense wonders if he has ADHD like me.

But the worst offence is that he messages me ALL. THE. TIME. He’s like me, 2.5 years ago, when I was a mere zygote in the dating world. I’m as neurotic and needy as the next girl, but funnily enough, all this experience with men who don’t text has made me want to text WAY less. In fact, in tuning into my texting habits, I realize that it’s a crutch. I reach for it when I’m uncomfortable or needing validation. Stavros is all about the validation. He gives it and he needs it. CONSTANTLY. When I try to put some boundaries on it, he respects them, but when I message him the next day, he very honestly says that he’s so glad that I did. I just don’t want to be on my phone that much. And if I don’t write him back, there’s always an attempt to re-engage me. It suggests an insecurity I don’t need in my life where it’s at right now.

So while Stavros is fun and chatty and distracting, and the commonalities between our jobs, cultures and interests are lovely, I’m not yet sure if our values are aligned. Monsieur Magique to me is an aspirational potential boyfriend. He has qualities I aspire to inherit. Where as my gut feeling with Stavros so far is that he’s work. And I really don’t want to be someone’s CONSTANT cheerleader, especially if they are prone to depressive tendencies, because it backfires and works against you after a while. I lived that once already.

Anyway, I’ve got a busy weekend coming up, but I decided to squeeze Stavros in for a quick coffee date to chat some more and see if my assumptions/instincts hold up. Then we’ll see about moving onto activities dates. Right now I’m most excited about my sleepover and then day date with Monsieur Magique (taking him to play some sort of bocce golf!). Exciting times, friends. Exciting times!