Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Wild Horses

"Maybe some women aren't meant to be tamed. Maybe they just need to run free till they find someone just as wild to run with them."
- Sex and the City

Thursday, December 25, 2008


Merry Christmas everyone! Hope you behaved well this year...I'm expecting a coal-free Christmas (renewable energy only, please)

Wednesday, December 24, 2008


"If you are single there is always one thing you should take out with you on a Saturday night... your friends."
- Sex and the City

Friday, December 19, 2008

Line Up

Saturday night my friend Katie and I went to dinner at this great place L'Artusi - just opened a few weeks ago in the West Village. After dinner, we hopped to a few different bars (our top choices - The Back Room and Lolita) only to find they were closed for holiday parties. Well, closed until 2 AM, when they would open to the public. We ended up hitting Spring Lounge and Puck Fair.

I think a simple rap sheet of the guys we met sums up our night nicely.

L'Artusi -

Not SUCH a bad start...

Boy at the Bar #1: After we explained a dish he asked about he said, "I don't like cheesy - even though I am from Jersey." He gets points for creativity - and being impressed that I got the joke.

Boy at the Bar #2: He didn't say anything particularly interesting, but what he did say, he said in an indistinguishable accent. Probably a faker.

Spring Lounge -

Ahhh, this was an experience. Particularly because the conversation began by Brian (roughly 45) and Declan (same age) moving their conversation closer and closer to us, stopping to catch their breath, and us overhearing Brian say "Fuck it, I'm just going to do this" before turning and reaching out his hand for an introduction.

Brian: After the glowing intro, told us they had been "staring" at us for about 30 minutes. Note to guys - it's one thing you say "I noticed you earlier" and quite another to say "We've been staring at you for 30 minutes." The only other thing Brian contributed to conversation was "So are you from the neighborhood?" He must have thought it would eventually get him somewhere - there is no other explanation for the fact that he asked the question on repeat.

Declan: Van Helsing hair, curly and long with gel in the front. Left eye: glass. As I know from past experience, just because it doesn't move doesn't mean it's glass. The give-a-way for me was the fact that his pupils were dilated completely differently.

Puck Fair -

Anyone who knows me knows I have had late nights (early mornings) at this place and it is near and dear to my heart.

Boy with moustache: 23 years old. Moustache. Need I say more?

Drew: Friends with boy with moustache. Also 23. After 5 minutes of conversation and the age reveal, and before he started introducing me to people as his wife, he had a little brainstorm. "Hey, I have an idea. What do you say I rent a room at Trump (with my parents credit card) and we fuck?" I said no.

Here's to another weekend!

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

You Married My Husband!

All I'm saying is that somewhere out there is the man you are supposed to marry. And if you don't get him first, somebody else will, and you'll have to spend the rest of your life knowing that somebody else is married to your husband.
Carrie Fischer as Marie in When Harry Met Sally

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Pfffft-pft-pfttt goes Jerry Junior (Meet Jerry Jr. Part 2)

Jerry demanded that I carry the box of pizza and hand over a slice immediately. I obeyed. We crossed the street, his eyes were closed. I guided him safely to home as he blindly inhaled his meat-lovers.

We got into his apartment and he went after slice #2. It was like watching a baby testing out his I can feed myself chops, trying to get dry Cheerios into his mouth - miss, miss, miss, bite. He had sauce all over his face.

I tried to focus on the task at hand, getting aspirin and water in his system ASAP and getting him into bed. I turned to the faucet, filled up the glass, and when I turned around Jerry had (in some fast-forward time-warp manner) managed to change from what he'd been wearing into backwards mesh shorts and a t-shirt. He never, ever slept in anything else.

Baffled, I asked him how he changed so quickly.

"I should change?" he mumbled.

"No, no. You already changed."

He looked down at his clothes, smiled to himself with a giggle, turned around and took off toward the bedroom. Now, this is a guy who would be devastated if any imperfection was detected in him. His apartment was always spotless, he was always "put together," and he took pride in being a gentleman (for anyone who knows me - those are three red flags that the dude just ain't my style).

Enter: Jerry Junior's crowning moment of our "relationship," as he seemed to be pulled to his room by some magnetic force. With each step, a fart. He took a lot of steps. Short ones. Each time his foot slapped against his wood floors, a fart of a different tone escaped.

I stifled my laughter - sure that he'd forgotten I was there or perhaps he thought, in his drunken state, the sounds were coming from somewhere else. I think among all the revealing conversations and honest discussions we had, there was no single moment he was more vulnerable than when he ripped 'em, letting them reverb through his apartment that hot July night. Blacked-out as he was.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Meet Jerry Junior

It's time you were introduced to Jerry Junior. There will be many-a-post about him. I guess before anything else, I should give you a basic overview of JJ. He is in his mid-30s, a lawyer, divorced, terribly nice, straightforward and pot-bellied. Why the nickname Jerry Junior? Well, remember the movie Jerry McGuire? Ya know the little kid? That is who Jerry Junior looks like - glasses, spiky hair and all. Just 36. (See youtube clip for a refresher)

We'd been dating for a couple months and one night poor JJ had too much to drink (we will go into stories from earlier the same night another day). He tore out of the bar, towing me behind him. Eyes barely open, arms dangling lifelessly at his side, Jerry Jr. followed his protruding belly like a drunk pregnant lady - shuffling his feet and somehow managing to remain standing as he zig-zagged down the sidewalk. I kept up, simply by walking a straight line.

"Hey!" He spit out. "Are you coming?"

"I'm right here."

"I know. But. Are you coming? Are you?"

"Coming where?" I knew he wasn't asking whether I was going home with him - that was a given. Having the motor skills to walk is one thing, but being able to open doors, hit elevator buttons and get in bed? That was asking a bit much. He was hammered.

"Where? Ughhhhh," clearly, he was frustrated with my inability to read his mind. "To get pizzaaaaaa. We need pizza. I need pizza."

"OK, sure. I will take you to get pi-" he was on the move before I finished my sentence, following his stomach across the street. Shit - I need to get one of those telephone chord wrist leashes for this guy.

"Hey, come this way. This is where we get pizza."

I ran after him, completely clueless as to how he managed to move so swiftly while making about two inches of progress with each step.

Jerry disappeared into the pizza joint. After a close encounter with a cab as I ran across the street, I walked into the place to find him swaying frontwards and backwards and trying to pull the wallet out of his linen Brooks Brothers shorts (a little safari looking for me, but he was so excited about those shorts and wore them proudly all summer).

Off the street and indoors, JJ forgot to adapt his volume before speaking. "I NNNEED TWO SLICSSS," he slurred. Turning to me, "TWO."

"Hah, ok you can have two slices. Whatever you want." So this is what it will be like raising children.

He ordered, paid and proceeded to ask "Wellisitready?" every 30 seconds until I sat him down and diverted his attention with a story. I was successful for about 45 seconds. "Welllll?" I apologized for him.

"Don't sayyoursorry ferme."

"Ready, sir."

We got the pizza and headed out the door. Our journey on the mean streets of the Upper West Side continued.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Don't Call Me Carrie...

I know I run the risk of being perceived as a Carrie Bradshaw wanna-be with what I'm about to do, but I ain't care. While being single isn't always the best - I'm lucky enough to have some incredible single friends to live through these horror stories with me.

Being a fairly level headed person, I acknowledge that I'm not only single because the guys who as me out are weirdos (or incarcerated). Women are crazy. Seriously. And while my friends and I fall on the less crazy end of the spectrum, we've still got it in us. So we're to blame in this finger pointing game, too.

In the coming weeks I am going to sprinkle in some thoughts/funny stories about me and my friends. These tales just might reveal some answers to the dreaded "why are you single?" question.

So begins the postulating...

Coming Soon: Playing deaf, BUFFALO, Non-game games, Mr. Wrong

Thursday, December 11, 2008


So last week I posted about a singles party I was planning to attend (see STAG below). Here's the follow up.

In keeping with girl tradition, I rolled into the party with a posse of other single friends. One left after 10 minutes. She had the right idea. The venue was Van Diemens in Murray Hill. It also happens to be location for date #2 with a guy my friends and I warmly refer to as Vagina Hat.

The bar wasn't terribly big. As we approached STAG's hostess, she bragged that there were "So many people that we spilled into the rest of the bar! Can you believe it? We were just supposed to have enough for upstairs!" Woop-de-doo lady. They're all old(er)!

A quick scan revealed men and women in the 30s (and, dare I say, 40s). We missed the age memo: If you look like you could be carded, this ain't the singles party for you.

We did end up talking to some guys - who, by the looks of it were foreign but had no accents (other than Juan Carlos who was both foreign and accented). My friends and I were sitting near them, debating whether - and how - we should approach them. Tired of waiting, I hopped up, walked over to the bar and squeezed by one of them to grab a drink. It worked. Just not the way I'd thought it would. One of them almost elbowed me in the head and another stopped him in the nick of time - though I'm not so sure it would have done that much damage.

They were alright, but nothing to write home about. That doesn't mean, of course, that one of them wasn't worthy of being brought home (no, not by me). At 11:00 I left. No better or worse off than when I'd arrived.

The GREAT thing that did come out of this, though, is this: my friends and I are going to have our own go at the concept. Here's where you come in. While we have brilliant ideas about venue, spreading the word, etc., we are clueless about a name. Please please please offer suggestions either by commenting on this post or sending them to

Can't wait to see what you come up with!

Tuesday, December 9, 2008


Maybe it's my current whooping cough and 2-packs-a-day voice...

Monday, December 8, 2008

Sucker Part 2

OK, where were we? Oh, right, kissing Steve Buscemi's doppelganger. Good thinking.

Before I knew it, kissing turned into making out (we went past 1st base - I know, I'm a floozy). We were in Q's room, on his bed, fooling around. He started moving downward and then made a move I've never experience before.

He pushed up my pant legs. Confusing? Yes. I had no idea what the hell was about to transpire. Hadn't heard of the ol' pushin' up the pant leg trick.

He stared at my legs like it was Thanksgiving and he scored dark meat turkey leg. It was slightly off-putting, to say the least.

Q was kissing my calves and making his way to my feet. Yes, the same feet that had walked the streets of Manhattan all day in flip-flips about 3 cm thick. Then, like a kid with a lollipop, Q popped my big toe in his mouth and started SUCKING.

I froze. Aside from the fact that this creeped me out on a larger scale, I am one of the most ticklish people I know - particularly my feet (ask anyone who has sat through a pedicure with me).

He kissed my arch. Moved on to smaller toes and then the other big toe.

I unfroze.

"Ha - ahhh, I don't think you should do that..." There is no guide or how-to book for telling someone to please not slobber on your feet.

"Why not? You have sexy feet." Great - guy with a name so weird I can't come up with a nickname also has a foot fetish.

"Oh. Thank you. Actually, I think it's a little dangerous."

"Why's that? It turns me on."

"Well, I might kick you in the face - I'm really ticklish."

"You haven't kicked me in the face yet..." he said as he literally licked between my toes.

"Oh. No. No you can't do that. I am going to seriously like, kick your face and knock some teeth out."

He made the move back up to kiss my mouth. There was no way in hell that was going to happen. No. Way. In. Hell.

"I think the booze is starting to hit me. I'm pretty tired," I lied.

"Well at least sleep over."

"Nah, I'll probably head home."

"Come on, just stay over. I will keep my hands to myself." Uhh and you better give Scout's Honor that your mouth won't touch my feet again.

After a few more back and forths, I fell asleep.

At 9:00 AM Q's alarm goes off.

After learning that his housekeeper was on her way over, I told him I had to go.

"I'm really glad I met you. You're the first person I've been interested in since my last relationship."

"Yeah, it was fun." Weirdo.

"I mean, to think my ex-girlfriend moved out only 10 days ago and now I've met a great girl..."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, I'm a lucky guy."

Not that lucky.

I got a few texts from him asking to hang out - which I declined. Then one letting me know he was moving to London for a while. I wished him luck.

Two months later (about a month ago), he cropped up, announcing he is back in New York and would like to pick up where we left off...

He's pretty persistent - no second date - but still sending texts to grab a beer and a hockey game. In fact, heard from him just yesterday.

I think he pushed me to the point that I am breaking my "at least 2 dates" rule. If toe-sucking is going to be part of foreplay, I think I have to pass...

Friday, December 5, 2008


My birthday is this weekend. Here's the card I got from my mom...

...Hope you don't run into any big boobs on your birthday.

Thanks Mum...hopefully, the only ones I run into will be my own.

Thursday, December 4, 2008


STAG. Defined by Merriam-Webster as unaccompanied by someone of the opposite sex. It's a concept I'm all to familiar with and a phrase I hadn't heard for a long time.

Until, that is, I received what can only be described as a chain-mail e-vite.

Pure brilliance on the part of whatever brainiac came up with this. Sure, we've heard of singles groups, but this is a nice new little spin on it.

I received the e-vite from my friend Katie (not to be confused with Katherine or any of my Kates), who received it from someone else and on and on the trail goes.

Apparently about 80 people have RSVP'd and the organizer is being sure to keep the boy-girl ratio as even as possible (thank you dear lord baby Jesus). The event is tonight in midtown.

I'll be sure to let y'all know how it goes - maybe I will even get a good post out of it (though I think the point is to actually meet someone)!

If it's a grand old time, I will forward the next e-vite to any other struggling singles out there who want to meet someone the old fashioned way - face to face, on your own accord.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008


The guy in this story has a name so absurd, my friends and I didn't have to come up with a nickname. For the sake of this post, we'll call him Q.

Q is a self-described 33 year old banker, living in an "impressive apartment" on Astor Place. Our first date was a long time coming, but very last minute (around 2:30 am). He is a hockey fan, went to school in Boston and is from an obnoxious town similar to the one where my family lives and I went to high school.

I left my friends and planted myself at first and first, just outside the cleverly named One and One. I realized I may be coming off as a bit hooker, standing on the corner and all, looking around for someone I barely knew. So I struck up a conversation with a guy who was wearing a Red Sox hat...that was baby blue. I'm sorry, I just do NOT get wearing the wrong color for a team...maybe I'm just simple. I asked him to explain and as he did, someone grabbed my hand while speed walking past me, spun me in a circle, and ended with his arm around my shoulder and his lips on my neck. Wait, am I in a relationship?

I looked at the culprit. Wait wait wait - am I in a relationship with Steve Buscemi???

"Beautiful." Oh man.

"Hi, nice to meet you," I said. I may be a little drunk but I know you ain't my man.

"Why all the formalities?" Apparently Q forgot that we barely KNOW EACH OTHER.

We went to a nearby sports bar. I talked about hockey and books and avoided anything slightly suggestive. He, meanwhile, stared into my eyes, smiled and told me how interesting I am - for knowing anything about hockey and, apparently, being literate.

"Want to grab a drink somewhere else?"

Ehh, nothing better to do
. "OK."

Little did I know he was going to whisk me away to his apartment.

So there we were, in his amazing apartment, separated by a kitchen counter. He looked ready to pounce.

"So I have to ask, Q, what's with your name?" Holy rudeness on my part. He explained it is a family name, then proceeded to tell me his full name. Would have been quicker if he'd just introduced himself as WASPy McGee from the get-go.

"It's so nice to meet someone who comes from the same background, you know?" Excuse me? "You know? From the same type of area."

"How do you know we have the same background?"

"Well, your family's financial situation is probably the same as mine, given where you're from, so our circles are similar. You know, so we 'get' each other."

What what WHAT?

"Uhh, well my ancestors are Irish immigrants who did lawn work and stole everything from chandeliers to furniture from the people who employed them."


"I just may have to come over there and kiss you." Oh. Yes. I can hardly contain myself, Mr. Bond.

This man was clueless. I felt bad. We made out. Here's where it gets interesting...

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Postman Delivers (Slammer Part Two)

About 4 days after the run-in with the convict (whose name will be withheld to protect his identity and, potentially, my life), a letter arrived at the station. I was away with my mom and received a frantic call from my friend, begging me to let her open and read the letter. Naturally, I said hell yes.

Here it is folks...


Ok ok - you know what, kids? I started typing the letter and realized it just isn't fair to post on this crazy world wide web. BUT - I am going to post some of the highlights.

  • Each page is numbered (in case I got confused or couldn't follow the story somehow)
  • Throughout the letter is the unknown contraction was'nt (sorry sorry, I was an English minor)
  • Every 5 or 6 lines, I am addressed directly by name
  • He was caught during high school with 13 lbs of marijuana and 23 grams of crack, "individually packaged up"
  • I was assured "This will be my only time in prison."
  • He didn't bring a kid in this world while he was doing bad - and wondered if I have kids...
  • He apologized if he stuttered when he was talking to me, he was intimidated (guys - if you are reading this, is that true? Can girls actually be intimidating? This is debated ad nauseam by ladies.)
  • He would be released in 2 years (he's out now, folks)
  • He thought I was "gorgous" (maybe that is some combo of attractive and ginormous)
  • He signed in cursive (somebody gots skillz)
And, the ony fullllll chunk I will give you (spelling and grammar true to form):
My name, if you take a chance on getting to know me I promise you will not regret it. I know you are getting ready to go away but we could get to know each other until you leave if you want to. You can drop me a card or a letter when ever you get a chance when your away. Then when you come back, hopefully you will come back, then it will be about time for me to come home. Then I can take you out spoil you and treat you like a queen, just how you should be treated.

That's right folks - just picture a baby-tee with glitter letters QUEEN, with me in a tiara and platform flip-flops with a baby on each hip, rocking feathered bangs...maybe it isn't too late for me to find him.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Slammer Part One

Ahhh, the convict story. This is a family favorite. Really, actually.

When I was in college, I interned at a radio station in Boston. One of the biggest shows we put on for the year was Earthfest - a giant free concert at the Hatch Shell along the Charles. As you can imagine it take a lot of planning and labor. Luckily, interns weren't charged with doing too much heavy lifting. The state of Massachusetts was gracious enough to lend us some of their finest...convicts. I mean, these guys would be getting out soon on good behavior, so they weren't so bad for felons.

Our work together began 2 days before the concert. Weather was nasty, it had been raining for days, so I came equipped with raincoat and giant yellow galoshes. When I arrived, my friend charged me with managing the convicts - state issued jump suits and all. I talked to the warden, who explained they shouldn't be any trouble and, if they were, I should let the ol' warden know immediately.

By end of the day, they were calling me by my shortened name, which only my extended family still uses. I was a little disappointed because there were 2 convicts who didn't open up to me at all (who do I think I am?).

Day 2 on the job, one of the two started asking me where to put a table and where to set up chairs. He was a big guy - you know the "I played football in high school and now I lift weights in the slammer" type - with a crazy Boston accent. At the end of the day, my friend thought it would be a good idea to give her card to the warden with the hopes of setting up a pen-pal system between station interns and convicts (not one of her brightest ideas, sorry M).

***6 months pass***

I'm back at the good old Hatch Shell where we're preparing for the final Dispatch show, ever. I was just swinging by to drop of beverages to put backstage for the band. I opened the back of the Suburban and stared at the vast sea of water, soda, sports drinks and booze. I walked backstage and grabbed a dolly (not a baby doll, smartypants) to unload the truck. I felt defeated before I even lifted my first case. I knew it would take forever.

"Do you need help, miss?" I turned to see a stocky man in an orange jump suit. Convict.

"Oh, no I'm fine thank you."


"Yeah, just a couple cases. I should be able to handle it with this dolly. I'm in no big rush." So sue me, I lied.

A few more convicts offered to help me out and I politely declined them one by one.

Then, "Excuse me miss, can I help you with those?"

I turned to explain, yet again, that I was ok. Before I could get a word out I heard "Oh, no. She won't need your help. She's a strong independent woman."

Uhhhh. The convict behind the voice walked over, extended his hand. "Hi, [insert my name here], right? I remember you from the other concert we helped with."

He was giant.

"Oh sure." How in God's name do you remember my name, scary spice?

"Oh wow, I'm surprised you remember me. I was too shy to talk to you the first day."

Oh. my.

After a minute or two of small talk with this convicted felon, the conversation took an unexpected turn.

"So do you have a boyfriend?" Now, when in a bar, girls are crafty and know how to lie on the spot. At this moment, in broad daylight and caught completely off guard, I couldn't do it.

"Oh, no. I don't."

A "shocked" look crossed his face (note: guys, even if you are shocked, don't say you can't believe we're single. We can't believe it either and being reminded of it isn't terribly rewarding). "How can you be single?"

"Oh, I don't know." ugh.

"Well, if I wasn't in the situation I'm in, I would ask you out. I can't believe it."

What the HELL do you say to that?

"Actually, I'm getting closer and closer to release. I'd love to take you out when I get out."

"Oh, well, it's tough. I'm going to be studying in London next semester then I'll be interning in New York."

"Well, if you don't meet anyone there, then. When I get out would you like to go out sometime?"

Seriously? This is what it has come to? And, helloooooo, I don't know what this guy is in for...stalking, killing his ex, removing mattress labels...Think non-committal response, think non-committal response.

"That sounds nice..."

"Wow, really? You mean, you don't think your parents or family would disapprove - me being in this situation and all..."

shit shit shit.

"I mean, you seem to be a nice guy." SHIT.

"Great! Ok. Wow!" Lord, he was like a kid in a candy store. "Well, I have the card for your station, could I write you?"


"Oh good. Are there any other people with your name at the station? I want to make sure you get anything I write."

I assured him I was the only me, told him I should get back to work, unloaded the Suburban and hightailed it out of there...

Friday, November 28, 2008


I think I speak for 90% of women when I say "Enough with the emoticons already!"

Please guys, stop.

Gals, if I'm wrong, for God's sake, please let me know what about those pesky little smiley faces (sent from MEN) is endearing!

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Friday, November 21, 2008

Dinner and a Song

OK - embarrassing story for me. But I think it's one that must be told as an illustration of just how single I've become. Move over Sandra Bullock (Two Weeks Notice and Miss Congeniality characters), here I come - bringing a whole new level of real life pathetic to the table.

I love me some Subway. It's "fresh," it's economical ($5 foot long, anyone?), and at the Subway near me, I don't have to utter a word beyond "6 inch" or "12 inch." That's right folks, I have my very own personal Subway sandwich builder.

It has become commonplace for him to pass off whatever sandwich he's working on to another employee when I walk in - or place himself in the correct strategic order so that when he's finished with his sandwich I will be next in line. He doesn't even try to confirm what I want anymore, just peers up from under his snugly-fit Subway visor with a (somewhat off putting) smile.

About a week or two ago, I waltz in and he's over like a rocket to build me magnificence on wheat bread. He grabs the roll, ever so carefully folds the turkey on then loads me up with some provolone cheese. On to lettuce (extra - thank you very much), pickles, light mayo and a touch of yellow mustard. All the while, gazing up from under his brim.

I slide along with my sandwich, giving an encouraging "You've got it!" and "That's it." until we land at the cashier. I'm happy as can be and prepare to tell him exactly what I have. As I open my mouth, he stops me - bellowing out lyrics to what I can only imagine is some Jonas Brothers song.

I am slightly uncomfortable - with one man building me the sandwich he knows I love and the other serenading me in front of a long line of patrons.

"Umm, I have..."

"No need to tell me - he took care of letting me know," he sang, pointing at my main man.

"Oh, ok." Ummm...sweet?

"And can I please have chips and a bottle of Diet Coke," you have to specify or they'll toss a cup your way and you run the risk of flat and/or super syrupy soda.

"Yes, yes I know that's what you wanted, he told me." I looked over at my sandwich constructor and he gave me a sweet little smile and a knowing nod. I look back at the cashier and he smiled ad belted out the crescendo of Teeny-boppers Delight (or whatever it was called).

And then it happened - I blushed. Uncontrollably. I felt my entire face turn Flatter Red. Because the men at Subway have memorized not only my favorite sandwich, but also my fixin's. Then they took it a step further and serenaded me.

Who says there's no more romance in the world?

Then again, get these guys out from behind the counter and I'm sure it falls to pieces.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

It's All English to Me

When I was studying in London I realized there are a number of big differences between the English and Americans. You're thinking No duh, big woop! Yeah they call bathrooms loos and elevators lifts - and I still can't get things straight when it comes to pants/knickers/trousers...They drive on the left and have no traffic pattern on sidewalks.

So why should being picked up in bars be the same there as it is here? During my Junior year in college, I decided to take a hike over the Atlantic and study abroad. I chose beautiful Goldsmith's College, part of the University of London. Its concrete campus is tucked into the ghetto of New Cross.

Immediately my newfound friends and I adopted Goldsmith's Tavern (GMT - why is was not called GT or GST, we didn't know), which was home to locals, students and some of the most curious people I've ever seen in my life.

One of our first nights venturing into the bar, past the bullet-proof vest toting bouncers, I had my first experience being picked up by a New Crosser. I was minding my own (annnnd everyone else's) business, taking pictures with friends, sitting on a bar stool and drinking Carling.

Then it hit me. Literally. A balled up napkin bounced off my back.

"How rude!" I said channeling my inner Stephanie Judith Tanner and laughing with my friends. The another hit me.

I swung around just in time for a third napkin to ricochet off my chest (that was a crowd pleaser).

I saw the culprits - two juvenile delinquents with grown out mohallets (you know, the weird mohawk-mullet thing) - giggling like little girls.

"Dude, what the hell?" Oh yes, I was a charming little blonde American girl.

Dumb and dumber motioned to open the napkin. Scrawled in 3rd grade penmanship, "Hi, I'm Jimy."

Well well well Jimy, aren't you just the spelling bee champ. I know a guy in New York I should introduce you to - your spelling and his extensive vocabulary would be a force to be reckoned with.

I got up, walked over, "So which one of you is Jimy?"

"Oy! She thinks your name is Jimy. And she's American." And she can hear you, boy genius. "She can't even read."

"Hi Jimy."

"Umm it's Jimmy, but if you want me to be Jimy, I will be. Want a pint?"


"Don't ya know how to say names?" Dumber weighed in. Another zinger.

"Yes, and I know how to read." I put the napkin in front of him.

He closed one eye, focused and burst out laughing. "Jim - ya spelled yar name wrong!"

"Yeah, but I got her to come over and talk to us! High-five."

Annnnnnd curtain.

Closing thought: If you're picking up what a dude's putting down when he hits on you, just make sure it isn't garbage, figurative or literal.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Holy Vocabulary Batman!

In the spring, hot off a great run ad spinning class after work I decided my body needed a little refueling. So naturally I went to my favorite Chinese take-out place. Crab Rangoons - does a body good.

I called ahead (yeah - China Town is on speed dial - so sue me) so I could just swing in, pick up the goods and get home to chow down. The beautiful irony of this situation, aside from the fact that I went from killer work out directly to the Chinese take-out place, is that I was in spandex and a beater. Who wants to see a chick in spandex shovel food into her mouth? Right.

So I walk up to the counter, taking quick inventory of the only two other people in the closet sized space. One gigantic brother, sitting down waiting for his food to be ready and one guy in a satin jacket, plastic aviator eyeglasses and a Nascar hat that would do Pennsyltucky residents proud.

"Work out?" The sweet girl behind the counter said while doing a weird Nordic Track movement.

"Yup." And now I'm going to eat my weight in chicken fried rice, thanks.

"Lose any weight?"

Uhhh - why couldn't she just have asked "Why are you single?"

"Hah - not when I'm eating like this!"

"Hmph." Uh oh big man in the chair was preparing to enter the convo. "You been workin' out?"

"Yes, I just came from the gym," my eyes darted to Nascar nation. He gave me a "yeah that guys a weirdo" look.

"Well," he blared loud enough for everyone walking on Houston to hear, "I think you look great."

"Thank you."

"NO! No - I take it back." Thanks dude. "You look - extraordinary. Don't she look extraordinary?"

Nascar pipes up, "Yes, I think you look wonderful."

I was knocking 'em out of the park. I had finally found my demo, "Well thank you very much."

"Yes, extra-ordinary," chair-man said, sounding like maybe he meant I was just super ordinary looking. "See? I got big fancy words too. Extraordinary. Fancy word for a fancy girl."

Yes, sir. You're a true poet laureate. No diggity no doubt.

Word to the wise: don't pig out on crappy food after a work out, or you'll be put through some similar awkward situation sooner or later.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Triple Threat

I spent time with my aunt from out of town tonight and was asked if I am seeing anyone. I'm seeing everyone. And coming up empty handed.

I told her that the dating game has handed me lemons, and I am trying to make lemonade, bitter as it may be. She asked for a story and as I tried to pluck one that was family-friendly, I was reminded of the guy I went on a date with who threw me off in more ways than one.

Another blind date (you'll notice this is a trend...also helps keep these poor schmucks anonymous). We exchanged a few e-mails and this guy had a great sense of humor and was a pretty good story-teller. Lots of funny anecdotes about his law firm (yep, a lawyer, this one). One thing we found that we have in common is a head-over-heels love for the movie Waiting For Guffman. A cult classic.

I arrive at Marbles*, a restaurant/bar near Union Square and walk toward the only guy who could have been my blind date. It would have been harder to figure out who he was if anyone else was in the establishment. So I waltzed right up and, as he turned to me, I asked if I should pull up a bar stool.

"Oh, well we can get a table." His lips were very red and pretty slimy. In fact, if he could bottle it, women around the world would pay for that kind of sheen.

Table = potential kiss of death because it can mean a meal. Dun dun dunnn, "Thought we c-could grab a bite to eat."

We all have these grandiose ideas of staring into the eyes of a guy we're crazy about. But what do you do when you don't know which eye to look into - because one is lazy and you can't tell which it is? I looked left, I looked right, I looked at his nose - and he looked at me, looking at him. Aaaaaawkward.

I wanted to get into a conversation to avoid my eyes darting all over the place. Little did I know, getting this guy to say more than two words at a time could have been an Olympic sport. Seriously. I talked about myself for a while; then, I started asking him more questions about himself.

I was running out of things to talk about and he wasn't through with his salad (oh yes, this was a multiple course meal for Lawyer McGee).

"Gosh, I'm sorry. I feel like I'm grilling you. Do you feel like you're being interviewed?" I asked trying to lighten the mood, looking at the table - his forehead - the window - anywhere to avoid the eye(s).

"No-no, it's fine." Three words! Woohoo - with two repeats and a contraction to boot!

The salad was cleared and I almost got up and left with it. Then, in a stroke of genius, "So, Waiting for Guffman. Favorite scene?"

His lazy eyes sparkled with enthusiasm I rarely see in grown men. And then came stumbling block number two.

"I-I-I don't think I could p-p-pi - choose one part."

Oh man. I've got a lazy eyed stutterer on my hands. And I've gotten him all worked up over Waiting for Guffman.

"I love the s-s-s-scene where he (insert bizarre exhale snort sound while chin violently swings to the side) pretends he shops for his w-wi-wife."

Lazy eye? Check. Stutter? Check. Suppressed Turrets tick? Check check check.

What's more, I couldn't get him to stop talking at this point. He just kept going and going.

"It's a z-z-zen thing. Like how many babies (grunty-grunt noise) fit-fit-fit in a tire?" There's nothing like having a joke delivered as a remix.

"Yeah, that's a good one. I also love when Eugene Levy -" I tried to get a sentence or two in.

"Oh w-w-when he auditions he is so f-f-(grunts)-funny."

After having the entire movie recited - with stutters and grunts and a jaw darting about sans boundaries - the check came. He paid (yes, that is worth pointing out. and yes, there is another post to come about that).

We walked out the door and I knew if we were taking the train, we had a 5 min walk together.

"You taking the train?"


"OK. I think I'm going to head this way and walk home. It's such a nice night."

We parted ways. At least we both recognized there isn't a shot in hell that is going to work out. He didn't ask if I wanted to get together again or ask if he should call.

Two thoughtful and stutter-free text messages and an e-mail later, he stopped trying to get in touch. And that is how the story of the triple threat lawyer came to a close.

Lesson learned: ladies, if you have a blind date, have a blind phone call first - and think of something thrilling enough that it has the potential to uncover any excitement-fueled speech impediments. Not much you can do about detecting a lazy eye...

*UPDATE, FOLKS: I was wrong about the name of the place we went to. Get this: it isn't called Marbles - it is called MUMBLES. I kid you not.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Here Comes the Jerry! Jerry! Moment

...we awake to birds chirping and the sun shining through the shades. PJs intact and all was rosy. Fireman and I talked about how nice it was to feel so comfortable with each other and how it seemed weird that, though we'd been talking all along, this was just the second time we were together face-to-face. Molly was still snugly tucked in on the couch. Oh - and if you're wondering what happened to Fireman's friend, the reading wonder, he walked home. Barefoot. He couldn't find his shoes. Which were sitting by the door.

SLAM. It came from outside. Immediately panic crossed Fireman's face, but his voice seemed
calm when he said, "Hmm, wonder what that is." He turned to look out the window above the head of the bed and his face dropped completely.

"Stay here. Whatever you do, stay in this room." Sweet Jesus, really? You couldn't have given me more warning? A sign that this was going to turn south - fast?

"It's my ex girlfriend."

Ahhh those three magical words every girl dreams of hearing. Wait. That's not right...

"She'll try to hurt you."

Then BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. Christ Almighty - was it Bigfoot? No, it was the ex. Fireman, clad in his Old Navy America Flag t-shirt (yep) and mesh shorts, opened the bedroom door just before she huffed, puffed and blew it down.

I sat on the bed with Fireman's dog - with two dilemmas: 1) do I laugh or cry and 2) should I run to the bathroom or the closet? I chose to not move and listen carefully. This chick was pissed.

He pled with her not to go in the bedroom. She pounded on him – yup I could hear it. "Who is in there? Who the FUCK is in there?" And then...the door flew open. The dog was shaking, I was sitting there with no flippin idea about what I'm supposed to do. She sumo-stanced her way into the room. Her face dropped and I saw her heart break. I decided then and there that if she tried to beat me up, I would let her. I would just curl up in the fetal position and let her pummel me.

"Who the hell are you?"

My mind raced - I was trying to remember my name while taking inventory of Fireman's ex. She looked like she just leapt off Springer’s stage in Chicago and hitched all the way to Wayland, Massachusetts – leaving damaged midgets, cheaters and the sexually confused in her massive wake. I was surprised her bangs weren’t feathered…probably just a casualty from the long voyage.


“How long has this been going on?” This chick was harboring more rage than an unjustly imprisoned convict (yeah, there’s a story there).

Now, this was a bit of a trick question. If it just started – then I’m a whore for being in bed with him. If I’ve been talking to him for a few months – then her heart would literally stop beating. If I say it's none of herbusiness – then she would stop my heart from beating.

“Uhh not long?”

“Well, I hope you used a condom!

Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!

“It’s not like that!” Ahhh – come on Fireman – aren’t you supposed to rescue people for a living? Step up dude!

Fireman interjected, “Pizzaz, that is totally uncalled for. You have to go. You have to leave now.” Ok, ok her name wasn’t really Pizzaz, but it will suffice for storytelling purposes.

“I’m not going anywhere with out my dog!”

“It’s not your dog,” Fireman remained calm – using a voice I can only imagine was taught to literally speak someone off a ledge. I’m sure that happened often in Wayland.

“IT IS MY DOG – OUR DOG!” She was on fire.

“Let’s talk about this outside.”

“We were going to get back together! We were!”

“No we weren’t – let’s talk about it outside.”

“Fine.” She turned her attention to the dog, who was shaking and now in my lap. “Come on Abby, come on!” The dog didn’t budge.

“I said come on sweetie, it’s ok.” Oh man, the desperation in her voice was going to bring me to tears. “Abby, please baby, come on.”

Yeah Abby, get the hell off me and go to momma! With a little nudge from my leg (it was a covert, undercover op), the dog went to Pizzaz.

She was escorted out. I was shell shocked.

“Uhhh?” It was a quiet, but distinct sound. Holy shit, Molly.


“Are you ok? That was scary.”

“Umm, I think so. Can I come out?”

“I think so – let me look – oh she’s still freaking out. Come see!”

I tip-toed out of the bedroom, zoomed down the stairs and sprinted to the back of the house, where the ex couldn’t spot me.

Molly and I started laughing and she read my mind “Let’s get the hell out of here. What the hell was that?”

Fireman returned, apologizing profusely and saying, “At least she didn’t have a vacuum.”

We had NO idea what he meant by that and weren't about to stick around to find out. And if that weren’t enough, I actually continued talking to him and we dated for a while when I moved back to Boston.

Apparently I can handle a near death experience, but not a guy who is afraid to go past 2nd base after 3 months…

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Who Needs a Jerry Springer Episode?

At the request of my friend, I will begin with the story of the fireman. Feeling particularly clever, we nicknamed him Fireman (I know, I know).

In May of 200x, I was living in Boston, attending school and preparing to move out of state for about 6 months for an internship. Around the same time, flexing my multitasking skills, I met Fireman on Friendster (can you see where this is going already?). I should have known better, but thought you just kinda accept anyone as a friend and so we started up a dialogue. He was cute - and a fireman - and after a few e-mails and AIM sessions, we decided we'd meet.

My group of friends met up with his group of friends and we had a blast! Everyone came back to my apartment for a nightcap and we woke up 5 people deep on the pull out sleep sofa - fully dressed. Fireman, living out in the suburbs, was responsible for getting all his 'burb dwelling friends home and the crowd dispersed.

E-mails, texts and phone calls followed - and no weirdo flags flew. I moved out of state and we said we would try to visit - after all, it was only 6 months.

I had my first return trip to Boston over 4th of July weekend. After getting some QT in with my friends, Fireman and I made plans to hang out. He was house-sitting for a friend and was going to have some people over. Being the sweetheart that he was, he told me he could throw a party for my friends, so I should bring as many people out as I wanted.

As it happens, my faithful friend Molly was the only one fantastic enough to be willing to drive to the suburbs - so we made our way out. In form true to any sane, single girl, as soon as we reached the town limits I was rethinking my decision. What the HELL was I doing going out to see this guy who I had only met in person once before? And what's more - I knew I didn't have a way to get home until the morning (hey, I love my friends - I wouldn't dare expose them to this potential torture AND force sobriety on them for the night).

Soooo - naturally I request that Molly pull into a bar for a drink (ok, maybe two). Then we sped off in the direction of the "party" and braced for whatever was to come. After getting lost, which is typical for me, we arrived at the party attended by Fireman, his friend (who later made Molly listen as he read her a bedtime story) and his 19 year old brother and his crew of merry dorks (lovable as they were).

The night carried on - drinks, fun, Molly being a Godsend, and Fireman actually being kinda great. I ran out to get my sleepover bag (equipped with shorts and a button down to sleep in), ran back in to find Molly tucked in on a couch and Fireman and I went upstairs to go to bed, went to first base (watch out!) and fell asleep. I had no idea what was coming in the morning...


I know I'm not the only person who has been asked "Why are you still single?" and I think every single girl felt a satisfactory "IN YOUR FACE" when Bridget Jones explains that under our clothes, our entire bodies are covered in scales.

I'm lucky in that I have amazing guys in my life - my dad, brothers and guy friends are all fantastic. The "guy category" where I'm coming up short is Boyfriend.

I moved to Manhattan in 2006 and have been a one woman experiment in Murphy's Law of Dating. Seriously.

So for two years now, I've been regaling friends with stories of sad/funny/"cringe worthy" dates. And for two years I've heard "You HAVE to write a book or start a blog about your dating life - you can't make this stuff up!"

This blog will be a mish-mosh of my stories in New York and beyond, guest posts from friends and whoever else decides to shoot stories my way (

Posts to come shortly include: the convict, fireman, chubs, jerry junior and a grown man who wore a paper mache helmet.