This post contains Nicholas Cage

I’ve been using OkCupid since 2008. If you don’t use that site, you don’t know how it works, but it like, totally encourages you to stick around. It’s like an aggressive version of those little creatures popping up behind Sarah in Labrynth, “Should you need us…” Only it’s like “Listen, we’re really happy that you’re off the market, but if you delete your profile you can never use the same username and all the hard work that went into creating this stunning profile will be lost, so how about you just click the “Disable” button. Then, if things don’t work out, you can just pick up where you left off.”

And over the years, I’ve become protective of that profile. I love my username. That profile is one of my finest works, always evolving. That profile gets me so many messages that I’ve never been at a loss for anything to do. If I’m bored, I just make my way down the list and find someone who’s not busy right then. Bad or good, that profile has been a huge chunk of my self-esteem for years.

“Don’t forget to text me when the race is over so I know you’re not smashed to bits.”

Yesterday, as the hours ticked by and I hadn’t heard from him, I realized that if there was an accident, I wouldn’t know about it. He races bicycle for a living. I don’t know how to say that. He’s a pro-bike guy. A professional racist? He goes out on these big races with a team and they race and they get hurt and all of a sudden I feel like I’m in Jerry MacGuire and I am watching a football game and my husband Cuba Gooding Jr. gets smashed into by other football guys and I don’t know if he’s going to get up and dance around. Only I can’t watch *his* race on tv. Or can I? I dunno. Never checked the channels for this kind of stuff.

In the past, when I’ve met someone on OkCupid and I really like-like them, I’ve changed my status to “Seeing Someone”. This is a thing you can do. You can say “Seeing Someone” and that you’re only looking for new friends. Or you can say “Seeing Someone” and if you say you’re looking for casual sex or dating, that shows up to other people as “Available”. So, I’d change it, as a gesture, as a way to say “Look, I think you’re pretty great.” A few times I even disabled that profile. That was when things were really going full-steam. Like, when Josh and I moved in together. Or when K and I started dating. Hell, I didn’t even disable my profile when Lee moved across the ocean to live with me.

We lay in bed one night trying to figure out what we’re going to hate about each other. He’s gone a lot. We both have a bit of the crazy in us. I post about my personal life on every imaginable platform. He’s fairly private. This is a thing I usually do by myself. Whenever I feel especially drawn to a person, I start to think of the things that won’t work about it. “He dresses like a dweeb.” “I already can’t stand the way he chews.” “He dances. I hate that.” It’s not a thing I try to do. I’m just the kind of person who thinks long-term about everything. I worry it into the ground.

But now that worry is replaced by a new worry. I’m terrified that now that I’ve met him, something will take him away. One of my co-workers got hit by a car on his bike Friday night. There were 618 bicycle riding deaths in America in 2010. Remember when Nicholas Cage became a human so he could hang out with Meg Ryan and then they are super happy? What takes her out? That’s right. She’s riding a bike and gets hit by a truck. Bikes are death-traps.

I woke up because I had a dream he was telling me goodbye in the morning. I woke up smiling. What a twit. That keeps happening to me. My face hurts from smiling. I keep staring off into space, thinking of him, looking like someone just plunged me full of morphine. My friends are downright sick of my infatuation phase.

I opened OkCupid, gazed at a few of the faces of people who’d sent me messages. No interest. I clicked on my settings, got to the disable profile page. They let you do this thing where you can tell them why you’re going. You can tell them who you met on their site. They say this improved their matching abilities. I guess that makes sense based on the numbers system they use. And I entered his name, and was about to hit that disable button. Then I thought better of it and hit “Delete”.

Now I’m waiting for the hours to pass, the text message to come, and reading too many articles about bicycle deaths. Everyone loves in their own way.

You know that thing where you’re watching sitcoms and you keep wondering if they’re just hanging out, watching your life and writing it all down? It happens to me only all the time. It could simply mean that my life is boring and predictable and just like every other single 33 year old woman’s life.

Anyway, Tim, you’ve been my best friend only forever now, and recently I was watching the Mindy Project because, yes, I like the Mindy Project. I do, after all, have a heart and ovaries and it’s an adorable show. Mindy was at this party and she assumed that these two people were a couple, and got upset when the guy asked her out. Turns out they’re just best friends. And I was making fun of it at first because these best friends were really over-doing it, like, all up in each other’s daily lives, frequently talking about how much they love each other, being affectionate. I mean, they’re just best friends, tv show! You don’t have to hit us over the head with it. Real best friends don’t- ohhhh. Yeah.

Yeah, I like The Mindy Project. I do, after all, have a heart and ovaries.

And we know that if we were the sitcom, the audience would be yelling at their television right now that we should just get together already. Hell, most of the men I’ve dated over the past few years have told me that we should just get together already. I even used you to get rid of one of them. He was convinced we were in love and wouldn’t shut up about it, so eventually I told him he’s right, I love you, and could never fall in love with him.

But I love what you had to say about it, the other night, before our Valentine’s Day date-night, when I was asking why it is that we aren’t together. Because, people ask me that and I never have any sort of good answer. You’re one of my favorite people, and sometimes I feel like I’d never make it through (through this world without having you) and all other manner of sappy 80s love lyric. We have fun together, you’re great to my kids, and I think you’re the most attractive man I have ever met. We both understand each other very well, and you’re brilliant. So, why aren’t we together?

“Because why would we screw up what we have?” As things stand, we already do everything a couple does, except for get in big, dumb fights. We have fake fights sometimes. Those are fun. And then there was that one time you punched me in the back of the head, you jerk. And last night I got mad at you because you made me find the HD PBS channel when I was content to just watch Downton Abbey in standard def. You were right, by the way.

But, seriously, once you put a name on a thing, once you stake the claim of boyfriend/girlfriend, things change fast. All of a sudden there’s more pressure on both of our sides to try and live up to things. Right now, when you disappoint me, it’s stuff like you decide at the last minute that you want to stay in and play X-Box when I’d rather go to parties. As my boyfriend, you’d be disappointing me every time you didn’t wash a dish, or chose to go to a burrito place even though I said I didn’t want a damn burrito. Right now, as friends, we get to see each other in that special spotlight reserved for people you love, where they look amazing from any angle. As my boyfriend, I’d be putting you under an interrogation lamp, assessing you constantly for flaws.

What we have is good, Tim. We should keep this up forever. Sure, in the sitcom, the best friends ended up confessing their love to each other and making out on a stoop. But this isn’t New York, and we’re aware of how we feel about each other, so there’s not going to be a passionate revealing moment of confession. Plus, everyone knows, if this were a sitcom, we wouldn’t end up together until the season finale.

My top three favorite holidays, in order, are:

1.) Thanksgiving, because I get to feed people and we all talk about how thankful we are.

2.) Your birthday, because I get to celebrate you having been born.

3.) Valentine’s Day!!!!, because we get to celebrate one of my favorite things: LOVE. Love, love, Hooray for Love!

I’m a sappy romantic. Movies, music, weddings, new love, old love. I love love. Even if I am single on Valentine’s Day- oh. Wait. That’s… never happened. Huh. Anyway, even if I were single, I think seeing other people in love is pretty darn wonderful. I even love the people who are grumpy about Valentine’s Day.

So, starting next week I’ll be posting product reviews, stories, recipes, and hopefully, if you’re so kind as to send me anything, your own Valentine’s Day related writing. Send me poems, artwork, stories, songs! Whatever you want to send to me, send it. I would love to share it here.

You can submit by emailing me! NikolHasler at Gmail
Email a by-line, any photos you want associated with your submission, and links to any of your work.

Love to all of you!

It’s hanging in my closet, blue and rigid, one sloppy sleeve not quite on the hanger as it should be. I’m lousy for keeping things neat, and I don’t take much time hanging things. When I apologize for the mess, I really mean it, but there are things I’m sorry for that I won’t change. There are ways I’m always going to be.

One guy, he said he wanted to get rich so he could buy me a housekeeper. He’s one of the funnier guys I’m dating, and he’s really bugged out over germs and dirt. He won’t take a shower at my house because my tub is so gross. I’m sorry about the mess, but it’s not going to change. He comes over anyway. What does it matter to me that he won’t take a shower?

When I lay down, all the dirt from the floor that got all over my feet gets all over my sheets and then my bed is a mess of little sandy bits. You can do what you’d like to try to fix that- shake the sheets, run your hands across the fabric quickly like you’re brushing a horse. Nothing you can do ever fixes that. I change the sheets once a week, so if a guy is smart he’ll chose Wednesday night to stay with me.

Your shirt is in my closet, and I have no idea how to give it back to you, because I don’t know who you are. I can’t rightly go asking every guy I’m dating if that’s his shirt. Much as we all know the score here, it’s impolite to hit a person in the face with a thing like “There’s a shirt in her closet and it’s not mine.” For a while I was dating this guy, Johnny, and he left a toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. I made some joke once about how I’d been letting all the other guys use it. I apologized for that joke immediately. Again, I was sorry as hell to say a thing like that, but it doesn’t mean that’s going to change.

So, next time you’re over, please take your shirt. Unless you’re leaving it here because you think that occupying some space in my closet makes you and me more legit. That’s sweet if that’s your thinking. Or maybe you’re someone who’s already left, in which case, I am destined to keep that shirt forever. I’ve still got shirts left over from the guy who left three years ago. I’m not even sentimental, I just feel like it’d be rude to just chuck out his shirt. Whoever you are and whatever happens with it, I just needed you to know. I have your shirt. I’m sorry I can’t tell you about it directly because there are so many shirt-wearing other men in my life. That does’t mean it’s going to change, but I’m sorry.

Recently my dating life has been fantastic. I’ve turned some sort of a corner where I’m attracting the kind of people who are good for me, good to me, and who are easy for me to be good to. They’re not rushing me into things, they’re respectful, and they’re all talented, intelligent people with their own things going on. There’s not a single person in my life these days who isn’t a solid, wonderful person. It’s an easy thing to get used to.

If I could date a burger...

I think one of the best things about dating is going out to eat. It’s a thing that gets lost in longer term relationships- the excitement of sitting down together at a table, enjoying new foods, sharing old favorites. Don’t get me wrong. There’s much to be said for sitting at a dinner table at home. I’ve always loved family dinners or slow, Sunday breakfasts. But, when you’re dating, you tend to go out to eat.

Recently, a very funny and talented man I’m dating took me to a gastropub in Silver Lake. At Black Hogg, chef Eric Park’s menu features some interesting options. For example, you can order roast marrow bones, a thing I’ve only seen on nose to tail menus. I had a delicious buttery lamb burger with habenero onions. I brought home the left overs, intending to serve them to Trast, but then I ate them myself. We had a nice array of dishes, and left feeling fat and sleepy, and one of the dishes really stood out to me.

The dish was so simple. It was a brussel sprout hash served in a bacon vinaigrette, topped with a poached egg. The real standout of the dish was how perfectly the bacon accented the sprouts. I thought more about the dish, and while it was amazingly delicious, when I cook, I tend to prefer a slightly less heavy dish. So, at home, I modified it. I served it last night, along with ribeye s that Peter Zachos cooked on the grill, and Trast’s favorite home-cooked fries. (He says I should cook them every single day.) As we were plating, Tim snuck a bit of the dish out of the pan and his face looked like he’d just been told on Maury that yes, he was the father. “Goddam, Hasler, why haven’t you ever made these before? We’d be married by now.”

So, in case you’re trying to get Tim to marry you, I figured I’d share my recipe with you.

Brussels To Marry For

3 slices bacon, rough chopped             1 clove garlic, minced

1T balsamic vinegar                                 5-6 large brussels

1 yellow squash, rough chopped          salt to taste

1 lemon                                                    just a pinch of fresh rosemary

• Boil the brussels whole until tender
• While they’re boiling, squeeze lemon juice all over the squash and sprinkle with salt
• In a skillet, cook the bacon swirling to really maximize the fat’s distribution in the pan
• Toss the rosemary into the bacon fat
• Yell at everyone that if they’re not helping, they should get the hell out of the kitchen
• Toss the squash into the bacon fat and shake it all around.
• Add the garlic. If you add it earlier, it’ll blacken
• Drain the brussels, quarter them, and toss them in the skillet.
• Drizzle the balsamic over top, let it all cook for a few minutes, give it a taste, and add salt if needed.
• Serve it and prepare yourself for a marriage proposal.

There is it. So, as I said when I was a little girl and thought I was being very smart and fancy, “Boner Petite”

In communist Los Angeles, girl does not go on date. Date goes on girl. (ew)

Dear Diary,

Every now and again I believe in fate, not recognizing it for what it is- fancy, dressed-up coincidence. Take the case of Alessandro, the seemingly beautiful young Italian, here from Milan to make movies. He’s a self-proclaimed genius- a thing he tells me several times a day.

Fed up with online dating, I used settings to build a contact fortress. In order to contact me on Okcupid, a man would have to have answered 500 questions and be a 95% match. I then added the line to my profile: “Not accepting new application at this time.” As if I’m a job. Come on. I’m a bit of a job, but the benefits are excellent.

And right away I got a message from this self-proclaimed boy genius. He’d just answered his 500th question, and we were a 96% match. And so we met at the Getty center with a bottle of champagne, fresh berries, a loaf of bread and some dried sausages. We sat in the garden, then wandered the museum, and from building to building I’d see higher points that I wanted to reach and I’d pull him toward those, while he snapped photos and videos of me, murmuring, ”Tale bellezza! Brillare gli occhi, la mia bella ragazza.”

We kissed overlooking the valley, an easy kiss, pressed together so as not to let the wind make tunnels of any open spaces. It was a beautiful date. At 15, 19, 26, had a psychic told me that one November not far off I’d be smooching it up with a young, hot Italian in a garden in Los Angeles, I’d have asked for my money back.

But, as things happen, dates 2,3,4, and 5 happened. And there was Alessandro telling me my friends were stupid and not going anywhere. And there I was looking critically at the way he dressed as he told me that people from Milan have the best fashion sense in the world; me wondering if wearing stiff, plain jeans belted high on the waist with a plain black sweatshirt could ever be considered fashionable to anyone other than my dad. And then we argued over intelligence, him re-stating his supergenius status, while telling me that had I never done any drugs in my life I might have “one day maybe been as smart as a man.”

I once ate at a local restaurant which I’ve read about, seen, daydreamed about a million times, but never ate at because I couldn’t afford it. A date took me there, knowing how I feel about food. And the ambience was as I expected. The other diners were wearing clothes that cost more than my rent payments. The service was perfect. The exterior of all I thought of the place was spot on. And then the food arrived and it just tasted like anything I could have made at home.

And so it was with Alessandro. The accent, the kisses, the romance of it all was surface-perfect. But, the substance was that of an over-priced low-end diner that could get away with it simply because it’s in the right location. (I’m looking at you, Brite Spot.)

I don’t want to become cynical. I am not going to allow myself to become jaded. I hope that forever and ever I can become moved and nervous by the surface of a person. But, since then, I’ve become more moved and nervous by the person I uncover as I get to know them, and that’s been a real treat. I certainly still cave to a bit of novelty from time to time, but I see it for the shiny foil that it is.

Looking like that little Jewish cartoon mouse with the hat and the ill fitting pants.

As for Alessandro, I am glad that I met him. Through our meeting, I made a few very wonderful friends- always a benefit. And, I got a few nice photos out of it.

Dear jblueiam,

The trouble is, you think you could never see enough, but you could. And you would. I’d let you into my life believing that our days would be one photo of fluids coming out of my body after another. I’d think to myself, well fucking phew, finally! Now I can spend all my time photographing fluids coming out of my body. I’d relax and finally tear down the walls that fear of never finding true love have kept up for so long.

But, one day, jblueiam, I’d be showing you a series of beautiful squirting photos, tasteful, of course. Or maybe a photo of me snotting, but dressed up like one of those Anne Geddes babies in a pea pod or something, and you’d sigh. And I’d hear that sigh and I would know what it meant. You’d play it off at first, because even you wouldn’t want to believe it. But, we’d both know the truth.

And over the following weeks, every time you heard me hammering a nail into the wall to hang yet another photo in the hallway, the chckchckchk of the tiny hammer I use because I think it’s cute would pull your thoughts closer to the front of your mind. You’d try to stick it out, wait for the nagging distaste for photos of me pissing in the midst of some Ansel Adams inspired black and white over-saturated landscape, the growing disinterest in the candid shots of me spitting on hobos, all of those doubts you keep having, to just go away. We live together forchrissake. It’d be a hassle. And you got me to move to Michigan to be with you. Go away, bad feelings!

I’d feel it, heavy in our home, and I would try to compensate by switching to videos of fluids coming out of my body. When that failed, I would take to showing other people my photos, sneaking around, but sneaking sloppily in hopes that you’d catch me and just feel something again, dammit.

You’re a good man, and you’d know that this was your fault. But that would change nothing. You’d never ask me to move. So, one day I’d have to make the decision myself. I’d pack in the night, burn the photos in a pile in the yard, and leave you a polaroid- your last ever photo of me with fluids coming out of my body- my tears. I loved you. I hoped this would work out. Goodbye.

Him: “Wow. You’re smart and even really hot.”

Me: “Nope. Just trying to seem smart because I’m deeply insecure about my lacking intelligence.”

Him: “Well. At least you’re hot.”

Me: “Nope. Just photogenic and good with photoshop.”