and now a very special episode of pretty dumb things

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a man I wish I had dated, and by dated I mean fucked. And by fucked I mean fallen in love with and married, bore his babies and lived happily ever after.

I wrote about him because I was contemplating what things I have done that I regret, and I came to the conclusion that what I regretted most was not what I had done, but what I had not. And one thing I had not done was Vlad, Vlad the Would-be-Impaler.

I figured that writing about Vlad would more or less get him out of my system. It did not. Rather, I continued to think about him, and the other day I googled him (google, the verb). I found him readily, for Vlad is a tenured professor in art history at an ivy institution here in the Northeast. He has published three books. He has co-curated a show at the Smithsonian. He has, in short, a splendid career. And a public e-addy.

Nowhere in my frenzied googling did I find any mention of a Mrs. Would-be-Impaler. And I tried. I searched “Vlad Would-be-Impaler marries,” “wife of Vlad,” “Vlad engaged,” and “her husband Would-be-Impaler.” I got nothing. Bupkiss.

Cool. I thought.

And I thought about contacting him. I canvassed some friends, and they all seemed to think it was a fine, fine idea to write my Vlad a casual letter.  I thought about it, but I was still seeing Donny, even though he had slowly been downscaling himself from boyfriend, to lover, to I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Boyfriend or Processed American Boyfriend Food Product, alternately.

Donny broke up with me last night. He said that he felt he hadn’t been a very good partner (he hadn’t), and that he was too depressed to be in a relationship (he probably is). Our sojourn had been so fraught of late that I didn’t really even feel sad. I’m sure it will come, but it hasn’t yet.

So today, in my newly totally uncoupled state, I emailed Vlad. Here’s the email:

Dr. Would-be-Impaler,

I do hope you remember me.

I don't know why, but you popped into my head a couple of weeks ago. And I admit it: I googled you. Color me 36 shades of impressed with your career. Without intention to sound sophomoric: yowza.

There's no way, I realize as I write this, not to feel completely awkward. I'm just going to stammer on, as if I while typing I didn't feel as if I had two left hands.

I am sure you are incredibly busy, but if you have time for an old acquaintance, I'd love to catch up.  I live in Manhattan, if you're ever in this little city I like to call home.

All affection and crimson blushing,
Chelsea Girl

And I must admit it, I’ve been feeling a bit giddy since I sent the e-missive, in all its spinning glory.

So when I got home from teaching my strip class, I went to Dogpile  and searched for Vlad. I found a e-newsletter from an environmental group congratulating a Mary and Vlad Would-be-Impaler on the birth of their first daughter, Lucy. Dang.

Maybe a coincidence. I mean, Would-be-Impaler isn’t that unusual a name, is it?

Then I found results from a road race in the Ivy league town where Mary and Vlad finished within six seconds of each other.

Double dog dang.

And then I found a mobile DJ company listing Mary & Vlad Would-be-Impaler in their section of contented marriage customers.

Fuck fuckity fuck fuck.

So, as I’ve said, I’m a risk taker. This time last year commenced SlutFest 2004 , about which I promise I will tell more, and while risks were taken then, they were always a condom-wrapped risk. However, I’ve hung up all sluttiness other than my intellectual sluttiness, and it's time for a new risk: I am now in search of a mate. And on the journey to mateville, some fun.

You must help me. I hereby propose for this summer some really pretty dumb things, the Chelsea Girl Date-a-Thon 2005. Think of the fun, the excitement, the wonder, the bloggy good times of you or your best friend dating me and getting to read about it in the morning. It’s like being a celebrity, but in a very, very small world.

Haven’t you always wanted to know the girl behind the blog? Now’s your chance. Even if not Biblically. Even if only vicariously.

Now the groundrules:

• All dates must be male. While I am a happy bisexual, my romantic leanings are very breeder, so unless you are a chick who just wants some hot angel food fun, regrets. (Though if you are, go ahead and e-mail me. Yummy.)
• All dates must not only be men, they must be single men. I don’t date the marrieds.
• As a prospective date, you must e-mail me at my provided e-addy, and you must attach a photo. If you are proposing a date for me by proxy, you must also attach a photo. Of him. All photos are for private consumption only; I won't post the pics, dudes.
• By sending e-mails to me at puppygumalick@aol.com, all dates agree to have their e-mails reprinted in this blog whole or in part, and, furthermore, agree to my documenting our dating experience.
• All dates must be within ten years of my age—that is between 32 and 52 years old. Again, regrets. (Please don’t make me ask for I.D.)
• All dates must occur upon the island of Manhattan. The cost of all dates will be the financial responsibility of the dater, not of myself. And, yes, coffee counts.
  
• Date is not a euphemism for fuck. Don’t expect this Girl to be putting out. Though I might.
• And here’s my promise: I will go on a date every man who asks or is proposed by an outside party, as long as he abides by the groundrules set out.

I have always been splendiferously bad at finding mates for myself. Let's see if you, my readers can do any better.

Won’t you please help a blogger out? Don’t let Chelsea Girl go dateless—enter the Chelsea Girl Date-a-Thon 2005 today.

Cheers,
Chelsea Girl

Comments

[chelsea girl]

Autumn, you vixen. I'm shocked and taken aback. Don't stop, you red-hot hotness.

[ben]

PLEASE PLEASE document the hot angel food fun, too. With video, if possible.

As for the date, other than not being anywhere near Manhattan and being very happily married and not looking for a date, I'm your guy. Sounds great.

If you're ever lost in the wilds of Texas drop me an e-mail, maybe we can have a beer.

[Tess]

...unless you are a chick who just wants some hot angel food fun.....Does this mean you have gone casual for us of the fairer sex? Am I always a day too soon or late?

You should soon be inundated with offers to last you through the summer. I can't wait to read of your exploits. If they are anything like some of mine, we are all in for some vicarious fun and, hopefully, debauchery.

[James]

Reposting this. This time I spell checked.

We probably have nothing in common, but I would love to go on one date. Definitely, in Manhattan because I would like to have a visual of the world you live in. But I fail to meet the requirements. 12 years younger and married. Sorry, maybe another time.

[badly dubbed boy]

Damn, if only I lived in New York. and was six months older. Grrr.

[Alohalani]

Angel food, eh? *contemplates*