Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Blue Aluminum Part 2

So Model and I set a date. We decided to meet on a Sunday afternoon at Starbucks near Canal Street. Now, I don't drink coffee - but I'm not at all opposed to coffee-dates.

I took my time walking over from my apartment in Alphabet City. What was supposed to be a leisurely stroll quickly became a lesson in directing someone around Manhattan. Model texted every minute or two asking which subway line he should take and ok, when he gets out, where should he go? and how many blocks away is the Starbucks? and is there another stop that's closer? and what color is that line?

Hi, I'm HopStop. Nice to meet you.

I got to the Starbucks early and received an "I'm so sorry, I'm going to be late" text. No biggie - plenty of "shopping" to do.

Then another text message - 30 minutes later.

I feel terrible - I'm not going to make it.

It's OK. We can do it another time. (You could have saved me the walk, the directions and the coffee smell.)

Let me just say it involves SERIOUS drugs - my ex-girlfriend is in trouble.

Whatever. OK. Let me know when you can get together another time.

That night he called, apologized profusely and we decided we'd meet on Wednesday. Oh - and the ex-girlfriend? She was threatening to do coke...yeah.

So Wednesday came and it was 4:30 pm before I remembered I had a date. Gap cableknit sweater that I accidentally shrunk? Check. Forget to wear make-up? Check. Unbrushed hair? Check. Horrifying day and even more horrifying mood? Check, check. Date with guy that stood me up due to ex girlfriend drug threats? Check. Date location in the same building as my office - increasing the odds of co-worker spying? Check.

It was going to be a good date.

He was off to Long Island after our date to work a party, so he warned me he'd be in his monkey suit. I interpreted "monkey suit" to mean a) literally a monkey costume or b) he was a confused kid from Maine and meant to say penguin suit. I was wrong on both counts.

He was wearing pleated black pants, a black belt with a silver cap at the end, black Dr. Marten's and a black t-shirt. He was holding a black button down.

"Oh I'm so embarassed to be in this monkey suit - you look cute!" he oozed.

I laughed uncomfortably, "I don't think it looks like a monkey suit."

We walked into Juan Valdez Times Square, where I was not going to be ordering coffee. 79 cent Chammomile Tea - represent! As we got closer to the cashier, where we'd be ordering, Model let a little distance slide.

Is he seriously not going to cough up 79 cents?

Yes. He seriously did not cough up the 79 cents. It being the 21st Century and all, I let it go.

He ordered a coffee and we found a table near the window.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

This Week


This week I'm nuts-o so I won't be posting. Take some time to read through "oldies" ( you know from like, November) but goodies.


Thursday, March 19, 2009

Blue Aluminum

I like to think it’s a right of passage to date a model if you live in New York. Naturally, the model I dated was a poor-girl’s model – but a model none-the-less (if you’re thinking this is cool or impressive in any way, you’re misguided).

I met model-in-question at a bar with friends. We were at one of my favorite places in Manhattan, The Back Fence. This place has sawdust and peanut shells on the floor, bowls of salted peanuts (in the shell) on every table and dancing is outlawed (Hellooooo Footloose).

My friend nudged me and let me know that there was a “sexy” guy looking at me. I had a few initial thoughts:

1. He isn’t looking at me, I’m probably blocking someone he was trying to scope out
2. He has a lazy eye and the “bad” one juts out in my direction
3. He is, in fact, looking at me and there is something severely wrong with him

“You have to go over and talk to him,” my drunk friend urged.

“No I don’t.”

“If you don’t, I will.”

“Promise? Be my guest,” I laughed.

“OK, but if I go, I’m going to tell him you really like him and are too shy to approach him.”

That got my attention.

“Fine, I’ll go over that way and get a beer – what do you want?”

She told me to get “whatever” and I made my way over. Before I had a chance to belly up to the bar, he initiated conversation.

“I know this is corny, but I’ve been looking at you.”

Blank stare from yours truly.

“I wanted to come talk to you, but you looked like you were having so much fun with your friend. I got nervous. Then you came over here. “

“Oh yeah, I’m just getting a drink.” Smooth.

“Oh – right. Sorry.”

“No, no – I’m sorry,” I said as I told him my name.

We struck up a conversation and he was beautiful (not my type). He told me he was a model and I laughed hysterically, assuming he was kidding. I was wrong (clearly). My friend came over and joined the conversation and talked to one of his friends.

“Well, I think I’m going to head home,” I said, totally uncharaceristicly – I’m notorious for never being the one to call it a night.

“I’ll walk you.” Fauxlander said.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s a little walk and I’m a big girl.”

“I know I don’t, I’d like to. I’m having fun talking to you.” My friend shot me a glance that clearly communicated if you say no I will pluck your eyes out and kill you right here.

“Ok. It’s a free country.” What a jerk I was.

So we left the bar and started walking toward my apartment. It had stopped raining, making it a little easier to navigate the sidewalk in my flip flops.

In one of my less than elegant moments, I turned to him and said, “So, you’re a model. I bet you date a lot of skinny girls.”

“Oh I never date models.” Mmmm-hmm.

Then, as I laughed and attempted to say “I’m not judging, you probably date a lot of ‘skinny bitch –,” my foot hit a wet patch. My legs flew to eye height – I was parallel to the ground, waving my arms and legs like a cartoon and I landed flat on my ass.

“Ooh,” I said as I looked up at him and burst into laughter.

I was entertaining a crowd, all laughing as soon as I did (thank GOD).

“Oh my gosh, are you ok?”

I assured model I was perfectly fine – still on my butt.

He lifted me up, “That was the most elegant slip I’ve ever seen.” I have to give him credit, he said it with a straight face and appeared to be serious.

We made it back to my building with his arm around my waist – more for protection than to show affection, I’m sure.

He wasn’t invited up, but asked for my number. I gave it to him. He was a saint. If I’d been more interested or concerned, I’m sure I would have been humiliated.

When he called the next day to set up a date, I agreed. I shouldn’t have.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Gal Smiley

Play with fire, you're going to get burned, fellas. If you use a predictable pick up line, this is your likely fate...

Guy in bar: Why aren't you smiling?
W.I.S. reader: Because you're talking to me.

What are some of your pet peeves? Any zinger responses to pick up attempts?

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Kiss me - I'm single.
Oh - and Irish.

Didn’t I Mention… Part 2

Thursday arrived and I was ready to go meet schoolteacher-pizza-delivery-Jason-Varitek. I got out of work on time, which was a modern day miracle, got changed in the bathroom and made my way over to Dave & Busters Times Square.

Being one of my first blind dates (with some pictures exchanged), I was still self conscious enough that even if I was looking my date in the eyes, I would call and pretend I didn’t see him so he could come find me.

I was pretty sure I saw him, but made the call, looked in the other direction, and he “found me.” He was cute – tall and big with a nice smile and white teeth (and no, that isn’t redundant) – and friendly. And he seemed normal. Ahhh, I was so na├»ve back then – guys don’t tend to a) self-diagnose, b) recognize or c) advertise that they are weirdos.

We made our way into the building, up the series of escalators and into the one of the bars (which, until recently, I thought was the only bar in D&B). We each ordered a drink and grabbed a table.

Good, we’ll have a drink, loosen up a bit, get the conversation going before we play games.

“Man, I can’t believe I’m finally here. I’ve been dying to come for so long.”

“I know – you mentioned that. Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

He laughed, “We’ll see! We just got here.”

“True, can’t make any final calls till you’ve played some of the games. Right?” I thought I was being clever.

“Oh, nah. I don’t care so much about playing the games. I’ve just wanted to come to this bar.”

I don't get it.


Oh! My turn.

“Oh yeah, totally," we ARE in Times Square - not the Twlight Zone, right? "Great bar."


“For sure!”

More silence.


The conversation picked back up and we were having fun – despite the fact that Mr. New York chose Dave and Busters BAR in Times Square for our first date with no intention of actually partaking in activities (I love activities, by the way).

We shared funny/awkward dating stories.

“So I have to admit something,” he said.

I was ready. I thought I was ready, “OK.”

“I saw my ex today.”

I could empathize.

“Oh yikes. How was it?”

“Well, it was the firs time we’ve seen each other since it was finalized.”

I was a little confused by his word choice, but soldiered on.

“That couldn’t have been easy. First time since you broke it off.”

“Yeah,” he shook his head. “First time since we signed the divorce papers.”


“And it was an ugly divorce, so you can imagine what it was like to see her after all this time.”

Be cool.

“How long has it been?”

“About 2 years.”

He was 28.

“Oh wow. How long were you together?”

“We dated for three years, were engaged for one and married for one.”

Shit, yo.


“Yeah. She went all possessive - psycho - bitch on me.”

Does she have a history of violence? Been there, done that.


“Yeah total crazy psychotic blonde,” he paused. “Actually, come to think of it, all the girls I’ve dated who are blonde end up being crazy - just abso-fucking-lutely crazy.”

Insert Anna Faris “I don’t know what’s happening” laugh here.

He continued, “You’re not going to become obsessed with me and turn into a mega psycho bitch too, are you?”


“Well you’re blonde!” he threw in a laugh for good measure.

Listen brosef, I'm so not a possessive psycho bitch that you will, in fact, never hear from me again - but thanks for setting the bar so high.

“Oh, hah, no-no. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Good – I mean you seem normal now, but you never know.”

Yeah. You seemed normal until you revealed that you double as a pizza delivery boy, lust after the bar at Dave & Busters in Times Square, got a divorce and therefore, you were married...and then accused me of being psychotic.

It's true, you never know - until you do.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Didn’t I Mention…

One of my first blind dates on the two-year blind date binge was with a nice guy from Brooklyn. Having lived in New York his whole life, I was looking forward to our first date. We talked on the phone a few times; he looked like Jason Varitek (guilty pleasure white trash “yay”), was funny and had a close-knit family. On top of that, he was a schoolteacher – which I thought was awesome.

During conversation number 3, we decided to take the plunge and set a date to get together. He told great stories and I was ready to hear a couple in person – see if he could deliver live.

“Where do you want to go? You live in Manhattan and you’re pretty new to the city, so go ahead and pick anywhere,” he suggested.

Being completely insecure about how to handle first blind dates – and wanting him to choose to flex his man-decision-making muscles, I resisted.

“Oh I don’t know. Like you said I’m new to the city – I basically am at home or work or the gym if I’m not out with friends. You probably have a much better idea of where we’d have fun.”

Read between the lines, I’m being coy and girly and simple. Don’t you like it?

“OK, I’ll come up with something fun.” Fun? Fun! Great – how could fun be bad? “Let’s still plan on Thursday night – I’ll give you a call in the next day or so and let you know where we’ll go.”

I ate it up. He was going to put some thought into it, not make some gut decision to go to the only bar he could think of or somewhere the average girl would think is “impressive.” I was stoked.

As promised (see, nice guy), he called the next day.

“So I’ve been thinking since our last conversation and I think I have the perfect place.”

“Great! Let’s hear it – anything is fine with me.”

“Well, it’s been around for a while. I’ve always wanted to go – my friends have always said I’d have so much fun there.”

“Hah – you’re killing me! Sounds fantastic – what area of the city is it?”

“You work in Times Square right?”

Oh. No.

“Yeah. Is it in the area?”

Say no, say no, say no, say no.

“Perfect – yeah!”

“Oh great – what’s the place called?”

“Dave & Busters Times Square!”

Of course.

“Fun,” was all I could muster.

Our conversation continued – and the further we moved from the topic of this native New Yorker’s choice to have our first date at a glorified arcade in Times Square, the better the conversation got.

I realized Dave & Busters could probably be a lot of fun for a date. There were games and drinks and plenty to distract us. He’d have the opportunity to let me win a game or two and I’d have the opportunity to drink my face off if the evening was a nightmare.

As I was feeling pretty good, faux Varitek interrupted, “Oh, can I call you right back? I’m at the house.”

“The house? What do you mean?”

“I have a delivery.”


“Yeah, didn’t I mention that I deliver pizza’s?”

“Oh. No, you didn’t,” don’t judge don’t judge.

“Yeah! It’s just something I do. I’ll call you right back.”

He kept his word and called right back. The surprise 2nd career was nothing compared to what I was in for on our date.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Who "Makes Love" Nowadays?

This one calls for participation.

For reasons I won't pretend to understand, different circles of friends tend to debate the same topic at the same time. Recently, conversation came up about "making love" versus, well anything else.

Particularly, we talked about when guys use the term when you barely know each other, are clearly just sleeping together or they think they're being suave. [Side note, do I believe that you can "make love" with someone you really care about and it can be special and not like it is with anyone else? Sure. That's not what we're talking about here.]

When I think "make love," I imagine a man standing on top of some rocky point, hair flowing in the breeze, a billowy shirt unbuttoned to his belly button, tucked into some tight purple crushed velvet pants - oh and he's wearing boots (obviously).

I haven't had a man of that description ever ask me to make love (thank God) - but I've had plenty of guys who I barely know or have been dating (in no way exclusively) suggest it. In my experience, it is nothing short of terribly awkward. I've laughed, I've given the gut reaction "no," I've pretended not to hear.

I guess guys think it is romantic, or maybe that we'd be offended if they said anything else or that it's simply what we want to hear. My question - what need is there to discuss it? What ever happened to just connecting the dots?

I was seeing this guy we called Big (ugh, I know, so Sex and the City - but this isn't because he's a big shot...see I'm letting you connect the dots). We were hanging out at his apartment watching Benji - yes, Benji - which happens to be one of my favorite childhood movie stars! After Benj made it past the cougar, through the river and to the top of the mountain, we were Benji'd out.

Big mumbled something so I said something adorable like, "Whaaa?"

Then he motioned toward his bedroom, grabbed my hand and, looking at the ground like a 5 year old boy asking to have ice cream for breakfast and anticipating a scowl, he said, "Do you want to go make love?"

I smiled then immediately looked at my feet - a move I hope came across as sweet, innocent and bashful. The reality is that the "aw shucks move" (as any girl would know), was an attempt to cover up a goofy, admittedly unfair, patronizing "isn't that adorable" smile.

No, I didn't want to make love - have a little fun? move to the bedroom? go to bed? Sure! But make love? Nope.

I think it is endearing when guys do what they think we want them to do - but man, oh man, sometimes they miss the mark.

Does every girl have a dream of being swept off her feet by the perfect guy? Absolutely (right?)! But guys, if this girl isn't someone you are CRAZY about and you haven't had conversations about your collective future, "making love" is definitely out.

Here's a good example of when it's appropriate...

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

January 1, 2008 12:14 AM

So, are your legs going to be wrapped around my head in '08?

- Text from our dear friend Vagina Hat

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Look Deeeeep Into My...

Well, the guy from the Chinese place has competition.

Last night I finished a positively lovely run from Times Square down to Soho over to the LES and up into my hood, ABCity. Well, lovely aside from the fact I was attacked (and I don't mean barked at) by a pit bull when I was in No Man's Land.

Donned in my capri spandex, long sleeved t-shirt and puffy vest, I made a pit stop at Duane Reade to pick up things I didn't need (what recession?) simply to make it to the "Hey you've managed to spend another $100 here so we'll give you $5 off your next purchase" coupon, which somehow still excites me.

With one ear bud blaring something like "Whisky Lullabye," I left the store - relieved no one looked at me too suspiciously in my spandex. Then I turned the corner.

"Baby, baby," the most grizzly-voiced homeless man ever attempted to "coo" at me.

"Ohhh," escaped my mouth before it registered in my one good ear.

"Baby, can you help me with something?"

I had been tricked by this before - remember the door man from last weekend?

"I'm sorry," I tried.

"I'm just, I'm hungry baby. I gots to eat..." he trailed off a bit as I continued to walk, shaking my head and apologizing.

Then some mumbles - completely indecipherable - well , indecipherable to one ear.

A tall cute guy walking toward me let out a laugh and glanced at me - not in a check yourself, you have TP on your shoe way. It was more Ha poor chick, getting harassed by a man who never says anything to people other than to ask for money.

I took out my other earbud, keeping my pace.

"Oh! OH!"

Uh oh.

"Baby, I ain't need money, food or nothing else from you."

I'd heard things like thisbefore from homeless dudes, I knew I was in for a doozie.

"Baby I just watch you walk away till I die. Yo' butt is HYPnotizing! Hm! Dang. Sway sway sway. I hypnotized and I love it!"

I dropped my head, laughed to myself, and continued on.

"Ha! Yeah, you know you got the power!"

Ohhh, the power. Sure, call me She-Ra.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Man Tears

I came across this article and thought it was interesting - curious about what anyone else out there thinks...

Men, Don't Wipe Away Your Man Tears
By Brian Childs
Mar 4th 2009

Ever since that sorry bastard on "The Bachelor" apparently cried a bunch on national television, there's been a lot of Internet hateration directed at male tears.

First off, let me say this: I do not endorse men weeping. If another man is crying, I will quickly leave the room. If I am trapped with this wet blanket I will look away and ignore him, even going so far as to whistle to indicate that I do not notice he is dying inside. But, in spite of being remarkably uncomfortable with the human emotion known as sadness, I will say this: Drop this whole real-men-don't-cry BS.

Sure, no one wants to cry. No one wants to poop their pants either. But if you live long enough, no matter how manly you are, both of these two things will happen to you. Sorry. It's one of the unfortunate consequences of being alive.

If you disagree with me, know this: One day you will cry. And it probably won't be after a big game like Brett Favre or when talking about prisoner torture like George H. W. Bush. It'll probably be because you're exhausted and your boss insults you after busting your ass at work. Or because you're drunk and the girl you're supposed to meet up with stops returning your phone calls. Or because your friend publicly humiliates you, films it and puts it online.

My one piece of advice is this: Lie to yourself and everyone else if you want, but when you do cry, don't do it on television unless you want people on YouTube making fun of you for the rest of your life.

And if you need to cry, it certainly helps to make sure your moment drenched in tears fits into one of the following occasions:

Five Times It's OK for Men to Cry

1. When your dog dies.
2. After any permanent penile-related injury.
3. While watching "Brian's Song."
4. When you're talking about how much you love America.
5. When you're trying to convince your girlfriend you're truly sorry you cheated on her.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Chubs 3: Accessorize

So we left off with Chubs pledging to no longer send dirty texts.

We had tentative plans to get together on Thursday night - he had dinner with client and didn't know how long it would go. I was somewhat relieved - it gave me plenty of time to grab dinner and a few drinks with my friend before I had to meet him.

So we went to a restaurant, ordered some aps and drinks and discussed whether he was a pervert or had a serious addiction to drugs and alcohol - and when I'd be meeting up with him. He started texting, letting me know the status of dinner: Going to be longer than I thought but please don't go home - I want to see you; Hey, getting ready to leave soon - but client is still boozing hard. You get the picture.

My friend and I thought, "Wow, maybe he actually is a normal dude and I will actually see him tonight."

He sent another: I can't wait to see you - feel those smooth legs.

Therrrrrre's the Chubs I knew.

Well, don't expect too much - it's only date number two I replied.


So am I going to wear your vagina as a hat tonight?

That's right - my vagina. As a hat. Now, there is the obvious interpretation of what was intended. But let's consider the alternative - this guy said he wanted to wear my lady part as an accessory for his head. All I could think was It's July, there should be no need for head gear whatsoever! And Um ouch. And Getting into my pants isn't enough? You want to get into my WOMB?

My response: No. No you will not be wearing my vagina as a hat tonight.

So. Why am I single? Because grown men (32 years old) ask me if they can wear my vagina...as a hat. That's why.

Oh - and don't worry. That wasn't the last I heard from Vagina Hat - he kept in frequent contact for over a year. More of his raunchy texts of 2007/2008 are being saved for other posts.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Pick Up Artist

This is hysterical - and terrifying. I think this might be one of the only pick up lines I've yet to receive. Gotta love the Brits.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

How Could I Resist?


The second I saw you, I decided we were getting married. I was 11. Years later, I’m still in love with you, and you’re in prison.

-Favorite Website Dear Old Love

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Weekend Answers

This weekend provided three reminders of why I'm still single:

1. Midtown doormen who ask me out on dates when all I'm trying to accomplish is to walk from 6th Ave to Madison Square Park with my iPod in while reading a book. He actually got me to stop - I thought he needed help.

2. Crazy men around Times Square who literally hobble over to me and get close enough to blow me kisses at point blank - while I'm talking to a friend.

3. Saturday night dream: harmonizing with a room full of family and other characters (including Carlton Banks, who is apparently a family friend, an opera singer, and Wanda Sykes as someone named Shaunda) to Whitney Houston's Didn't We Almost Have It All


Monday, March 2, 2009

Chubs 2: The Eve of a New Nickname

So yes, the texting began. Harmless at first: Really excited to see you again. What night should we get together? Great, Thursday it is. etc. I was excited. We'd picked a day.

As Thursday approached, the text "intimacy level" picked up. Which I was not prepared for. Ok ok ok. By intimacy level, I mean he went from Hero to Zero.

The texts, which took place during the work day, started to escalate slowly.

What color?

What color what?


I must digress here. Feel free to comment a response, but how many girls can actually stomach the word "panties?" Most every girl I know is weirded out by it.

Back to the topic at hand. I didn't know how to answer, but knew that one date didn't warrant work-time texts messages about my underwear. I played it coy at first, not quite sure how to respond. There were a lot of "ha"s preceding and following the meat of my response texts. Little did I know, or intend, this only encouraged Chubs. This landed him on a path to a new nickname.

The dirty factor increased, turning into things I only imagine he heard in pornos and thought would work on a girl in real life. I tried to justify them by thinking either he had a severe drug and alcohol problem and wasn't sober when sending (which, HELLO should tell me to run for my life) OR he was kidding.

Now, I have two brothers and am not easily embarrassed or made to feel uncomfortable. But Chubs managed to do both with his texts. I ran them by my friends to see if I was just being prude. I received a resounding no.

So I responded to one of his texts, "Listen, I don't mean to make a big deal out of anything, but those text messages make me feel kinda uncomfortable." I patted myself on the back for addressing it - being that I have a tendency to just let things slide even if they bother me.

As I was feeling good about myself, I got his response. "Oh, you're just being shy!"

My gut reaction was panic. Shit. I am? I guess I am really prude or juvenile or something. Then I realized, Hey this fatty is manipulating. I'm not being shy; I'm being honest.

"I don't think I'm being shy. You're making me feel uncomfortable."

"Ha ha I'm just kidding. I won't do it anymore."

And he didn't. For a couple days.