Archive | December, 2011

Erecting the Box

25 Dec

I have several friends who are on dating websites.  Before signing up again, I discussed with them the pros and cons of OKCupid compared to the ones you pay a monthly fee for such as eHarmony and Match.  My research has lead me to the following conclusion: generally, those who are serious about finding “love” are more willing to pay a robot to tell them who they should like.  People who are cheap, broke, lazy, or looking for one-night stands prefer OKCupid.  There are some questionable individuals on all dating websites so you have to gear your profile towards your target audience.  I couldn’t decide between filling it out honestly or writing a completely outlandish profile to attract a bunch of insane people and entertain myself.  The first time I used the website I had filled it out seriously and still attracted weirdos, so I made it pretty straightforward with some quirky details thrown in for good measure.  Next, I needed to specify to the robot (and to myself) the ground rules for this operation.  I am open to meeting all sorts of different creatures of the night, but some things simply will not stand.  Here are my guidelines that guys have to meet before I will agree to go on a date with them.

Qualifying Factors:

1.  Must be over 5’11.  (This rules out about 95% of the website and maybe 75% of Manhattan.  The odds are not in my favor.)

2.  Must be over 26, and under 40.  (I struggled with the maximum age because if you are over 35 and still single, that could potentially be a red flag.)

3.  Must not use “OMG” “LOL” “Kewl” or “Laters.”  (This really should apply to everyone in life, but it’s much more offensive coming from a straight adult male.)

4.  No white pants, man flares, Steve Madden dress shoes, or eyeliner. (Graphic tees are not preferred but can be allowed on a case-to-case basis.)

5.  Do not ask me to Skype with you.  (For some reason meeting someone for the first time in person is way less creepy than meeting them on a computer screen while you’re sitting alone in your room drinking a Snapple next to your dirty underwear.)

6.  Absolutely no ice chewers.  (You could be the most amazing person on the planet, but the second you pop that cube in your mouth, it’s over between us.)

7.  Must have lips.  (I am not physically attracted to terriers.)

I’m sure I will add more requirements as I continue to sample what this great city has to offer.  For now, we’ll start with this.


First Things First

25 Dec

Last winter, I received an email from the dating website notifying me that someone had signed me up under the screen name “SoftButch84.”  After trying to figure out which one of my hilarious friends was responsible for this prank, I decided to keep the account, but change the screen name and the sexual preference.  I had never tried online dating before, let alone been on a blind date.  Unfortunately, the month I decided to give online dating a try coincided with the month that I stopped drinking for three weeks.  Even my dad said “Damn, you picked a bad time to start dating!”  My dad is known for being a real hand with the ladies, as they say.  Once when we were at a bar, he yelled at me because I was wearing a ring on my left hand and said “Girl, if you’re trolling, you better move that ring to the other hand!”  But he is another story.

I went on a total of two dates before deleting my account in disgust.  An Asian doctor took me to dinner at a place in Cobble Hill, had clearly lied to me about his height and I suspect was lying to himself about liking women.  He got a little too excited when I told him I worked for a popular fashion company and spent the rest of our time together bragging about his collection of designer footwear.  But that’s what I get for going out with someone who used the pick up line “OMG your hair is so cute!  When are you going to ask me out?”

The second guy was a graduate film student at NYU and appeared pretty normal online.  Nope.  We met at some sort of NYU bar where he tried desperately to be funny as I slammed club sodas, attempting to trick myself into believing they were alcoholic beverages.  He smelled like he hadn’t washed his clothes in several months and his breath gave away the doobie he had smoked on the way over.  After thirty minutes of fake-laughing, I was getting a headache so I made up a reason why I needed to go home immediately.  He asked me what train I was taking and when I answered the F, he said “Great, we can take it together!”  I made a mental note never to reveal truthful train information to dates.  During the most awkward train ride of my lifetime, he kept scooting closer and closer to me so that his dirty cargos were cemented to my leg.  He then decided it was an appropriate moment to disclose to me that he used to have a lazy eye and, after corrective surgery, had to wear an eyepatch for several months.  I got home and promptly deleted my OKCupid account.

Over the course of the summer, I continued to find myself in ridiculous situations involving guys that I met in every day non-internet-related situations.  I began to accept that a dysfunctional love life is perhaps my destiny.  I had been joking around about starting a blog for awhile, and eventually my friends at work convinced me to go through with it.  Hey, maybe I should even rejoin a dating website to keep my material fresh and new!  Even if no one reads this other than a small handful of my friends, I will be able to look back on it someday and fondly reminisce over the indiscretions of my youth.

That or weep endlessly into a cracked mirror.

Romance Unlimited

10 Dec

I was enjoying some tacos with friends when this individual began messaging me on New York’s finest free dating website.  I always look at their profile before I respond and this one was particularly offensive.  Picture a diminutive anteater with a bewildered expression and the crisp crew neck sweater of an MIT student.  Under “The first thing people notice about me” question on his profile, he wrote: “Y so serious?  I’m focused on chilaxing and can sometimes eat a whole chicken without burping.”  The internet tells me that this guy is 73% my love match and 69% my friend.  Apparently I need to do some work on my profile.  Here is the conversation that followed:

(Nov 27, 2011)

ANTEATER: hi i like ur profile… are u captain planet???

ME: Only sometimes you can eat a whole chicken without burping? Weak, dude.

ANTEATER: i am fragile…..

ME: I would break you.


ME: For starters, I’m 3 inches taller than you.

ANTEATER: i strike from below…..

ME: So does a diet of whole chickens

ANTEATER: hahahhahahaaaaa………dont blame the chicken……
your a vegiterian……..i was susspecting something like that…lol…
u still look pretty tho………dont know why i said that…

The spelling, the pictures, the witty banter… watch out for this one, ladies.

Clay Aiken

10 Dec

Clearly I did not have relations with Clay Aiken.  He is gay and looks like a prawn.  But the name of the individual in question rhymes with Clay Aiken, so here we are.

I knew this person for one day.  He was a friend of a friend that I went to college with.  Mr. Aiken was an actor who recently moved to New York via Missouri.  He is one of those people that posts what I call “Living the dream” updates on Facebook about all the auditions he is going on, and “New York moments” he’s enjoying in the big city.  He looked a bit like a horse in the mouth, had abnormally long toes, white sunglasses, and was shaped like a question mark.  Was nice though, and funny enough.

We went to the beach with my roommate and the aforementioned college friend, drank all day, drove back, and continued the festivities into the night at the restaurant my roommate worked at.  I am conjuring a slight memory of a salmon burger… but I can’t be certain.  The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning for work massively hungover and nude– next to a bag of biscuits.  I didn’t want my roommate to learn that I had plundered her Pillsburys in a naked stupor, so on my way to work I disposed of the evidence in the kosher trash receptacle of a Hasidic neighbor.

This scenario began my reputation at work which is summed up by the quote “I made ya some biscuits, but ya can’t sleep over!”  Anyway, I tried to chat with Clay online after our 1-day stand, to be buddies or whatever normal people do, but he wasn’t into it.  And I can’t say that I really care.

Arnold Bistro

7 Dec

I was about to leave the Corner Bistro when I was approached by Arnold.  He was a muscular, tan, fifty-something year old man in a disconcerting retro shirt and of course, white pants.  He wasted no time in letting me in on the fact that he was gracing me with his presence because he was “sexually attracted” to me.  After bestowing upon me the gift of several glasses of cheap wine, he offered to drive me home in his Pontiac Firebird convertible.  I agreed, which I soon regretted after standing on the corner for twenty minutes, watching him wrestle with the hood of his car in tight, white linen slacks.  I didn’t want to make him to drive all the way to Brooklyn, so he dropped me off in the East Village instead.  After he pulled me in for an aggressive kiss, I got out and took the train the rest of the way.  By the time I reached my apartment, I had received two drunken voicemails from Arnold telling me how confusing I am for leaving him to probably go meet up with another guy, and how he wanted me to be his date to all of his “exclusive events.”

Despite the discernible red flags, I was intrigued by the attention from an older man and ended up agreeing to a date with him the following week.  He met me at a random sports bar in Chelsea donning yet another pair of white pants, this time combined with a white shirt that accented what I venture to guess was not his natural skin tone.  He complained more than once about the fact that my wine was not included in the happy hour special after he offered to buy me drinks.  The original plan was to go out for sushi afterwards, but he decided half-way through happy hour that it would be a better idea to make a salad together at his apartment.  At this point it was difficult for me to ignore the sinking suspicion that a sensual salad tong reach-around was imminent, yet still I forged ahead.

After an awkward and lengthy grocery store trip, we walked at least fifteen blocks to his apartment.  It was in a really nice part of the East Village but his furnishings were that of a late-twenties thrift store junkie.  It also had no air conditioning and an allegedly noise-sensitive transvestite neighbor.  Arnold got out several albums from his massive record collection to impress me after he learned of my love and knowledge of classic rock.  In between sweating profusely, shushing me and periodically turning down the music (due to an alleged irritable transvestite neighbor), he scolded me for setting an album cover on the table in case there was salad dressing on it.  He then regaled me with tales of various other women he was seeing, his close threesome encounter with a cast member of “The Good Wife,”  and his own ex-wife.  Apparently he ran a modeling agency when he was younger and had married one of his models.  All of a sudden, sweaty and misty-eyed, he reclined on me…and wasn’t the Emerson, Lake, and Palmer song that was playing romantic?  Eventually, he gathered that I was not going to sleep with him, so he walked me to the train.

A week or so later, I went to the Bistro with a coworker.  Arnold happened to be there, wasted and obnoxious.  He was pissing off the bartender, harassing several bar patrons, and insulting my coworker.  Finally, after I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with him, he announced he was leaving– but not before grabbing my face to try and kiss me.  On his way out, he invited me to be his date for an event at the Museum of Sex the following week and told me to text him the next day if I was interested.  Obviously, I was not.  The day before the event, I received this text: “Haven’t heard from you so we will get together another time.  :-) Arnold.  P.S. SEX MUSEUM.”

2011: The summer of love.