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...