Archive | February, 2012

The Farter

28 Feb

Brian lived in the apartment above me at my former residence in Williamsburg.  We met for the first time when I came home from work one night and he and my roommate were rolling doobies in the backyard.  I politely declined their herbal offerings, but agreed to join them for drinks upstairs.  Brian was a big pothead and his apartment looked like a hippie commune, complete with all sorts of crazy tapestries, a plethora of plants, and an assortment of loose felines.  He introduced us to his favorite cat, a female named “BJ” – short for Brian, Jr.

I assumed he was gay.  His vocal inflections were very effeminate and my roommate told me that he used to be a male model.  He got out his portfolio and, sure enough, there he was- half-naked, posed provocatively with attractive women.  I showed a current picture of him (in which he is stabbing a miniature squash with a butter knife while spilling red wine all over his shirt) to one of my best friends, and he said he looks like someone who kidnaps children in the back of a van.  I have done many impressions of Brian’s outlandish vowel usage.  It’s hard to convey via typing, but when he would say the word “so,” it contained every vowel in the alphabet and would take him ten seconds to say, ie: “saaaaaiiiiieeeeeeooooooouuuuuuuuwwww.”  He also used more generic British lingo than an actual English person, such as “bollocks,” “blimey,” “fags,” etc.

After that evening I didn’t see him for a couple months.  Then, one night my roommate and I went to a sports bar in Cobble Hill and, as if out of nowhere, Brian appeared.  I assumed she had invited him because she was planning on pursuing his loins (she had mentioned the fact that a year or so ago they had rolled around naked together for a hot second.)  To my surprise, she set her sights on the bartender and spent the majority of the evening smothering him with her monumental mammaries.  Apparently Brian and I appeared to be hitting it off because my roommate kept coming over to make sure we appreciated all of the free drinks she was securing for us with her feminine wiles.  She also kept grabbing his hands and placing them on my legs, something she frequently did when we were out and I was talking to someone.  I could never figure out whether she did this to alienate or “help” me.

After several beers on an empty stomach, I stumbled down to the restroom.  Brian got up to follow me to the “loo” and was confronted on the way by my roommate.  It is unclear why, but allegedly he defended himself by telling her that he had a bowel emergency.  A few seconds later, I came out of the stall to Brian enveloping me in a gigantic aggressive kiss.  As if that didn’t catch me off guard enough, the next thing I see is my roommate bursting through the door, breasts and eyes ablaze, screaming at him: “YOU DON’T HAVE LOOSE STOOL, YOU’RE JUST A CHICKEN SHIT!”  She then proceeded to storm upstairs and out of the bar.  I followed her, apologizing and telling her it certainly wasn’t my intention to make out with that gay goose.  She drunkenly pushed me away and disappeared into the night.

I was pet-sitting for my sister at the time and staying overnight at her apartment, which happened to be four blocks from the bar.  Brian followed me to her place and continued his aggressive tactics on her couch.  At this point, I was willing to ignore his cuffed man capris, beaded necklace, and Hawaiian-print flip flops.  I’m pretty sure there was a pantless scenario taking place when he passionately kissed me and simultaneously ripped the most vibrant fart of 2011 all up on my sister’s futon.  I sprung up faster than I knew was humanly possible.  “WHAT was that?”  I questioned in a tone that was less than friendly.  “What was what?” he asked innocently with a slight grin that came across a little too relieved for my comfort zone.  I told him it would be best if he went on his merry way, and apparently on the way home, he ran into my roommate, still searching the streets of Brooklyn for her car.

I must admit that The Farter and I hung out a few times after that.  Once, we were watching “Lolita” on TCM, and he began thumbing my boobs like a Nintendo controller while hissing “You have fantassssstic titsssssss.”  Another night he came over and was bragging about how all the servers at his bar loved it when he used his “secret weapon”- aka farting on patrons to get them to leave the bar when they were closing.  I am not kidding.  The other thing I forgot to mention is how long his toenails always were.  One of the last times we hung out before I moved out of the building, I tried to hug him goodbye and legitimately stepped on his toenails.  He had on his usual floral sandals, but his toenails protruded further than God intended when he created those pink Walmart flip flops.

The Farter and I never made it past second base thanks to his flatulence.  My coworker commented that it was probably a good thing because if that’s the kind of attention he paid his toenails, his nether regions “probably smelled like Boston Market ranch dressing with a hint of dill.”

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So Long, Cupid

22 Feb

A few nights ago, I went on a final OkCupid date before deleting my account.  I know this is a shocking blow for all two of my blog readers, but my patience had rapidly worn thin as I began to eradicate alcohol from the equation.  I have found that to be a sober serial blind dater, one must be extremely well-versed in the realm of current events AND have an everlasting reserve of energy and tolerance.  I’m just going to throw my cards on the table and say that I may be lacking in at least two of those categories.

I can’t remember the name of the guy I was meeting…I think it was John.  I had worked all day and was tired, but forced myself to give ‘er one last go.  Besides, John looked cute in his pictures, was thirty, allegedly over six feet, and didn’t use emoticons in his texts.  Who knows?  Maybe he was about to blow my mind and make me think twice about deleting my account.  He had invited me to a birthday party in Fort Greene, but agreed to meet me at my friend’s bar in the Village first to assuage any awkwardness.  It was the first time since being on the site that I had difficulty recognizing a blind date in person.  He looked like the gay older brother of the individual in the pictures online.  Thirty years old and six feet tall?  More like forty and five-ten unless you counted the gelled hair dollop nestled atop his glistening brow.

After I overcame my initial speechlessness, I led him to a booth and began the small talk routine.  I honestly can’t even relay what he did for a living because none of the words he used made sense to my brain.  It had to do with numbers and the government.  He had fangs, a lisp, and he made an “O” shape on one side of his mouth when he drank from his beer bottle, like the Tin Man receiving oil from his oil can.  After he spit on me several times while he was talking, I shifted sideways in the booth so that I was no longer in the line of fire.  He told me that he had just gotten a haircut from the Blind Barber, which prompted me to inquire as to whether his barber was actually blind.  Apparently it’s a barbershop/cocktail lounge, but the dollop was disconcerting and he had in so much hair product he smelled like a strip club.  I asked him how he liked OkCupid and he responded that this was only his second date.  His first date had been the night before and, afterwards, he had gone back to her place and slept with her.  “She isn’t attractive at all, but she’s filthy rich and her dad owns the luxury building where she lives.  Is this too much information?”  And I thought I didn’t have a filter!  I told him maybe he should keep her around for some free dinners, and he replied “Oh, it’s definitely still on the table.”

Escape plans began running through my mind as we got in a cab and he began a lengthy lecture on foreign exchange and short selling.  I stopped listening to him around the point when he was informing me that all of his stocks are in silver because that’s where the country is headed after the financial apocalypse.  After staring out the window for a while, I tuned back into his ramblings and he was ending a story with “and then an orange man crossed the street.”  I will never know if he was just checking to see if I was listening or actually talking about orange men.  I hope it’s the latter.  We arrived at the bar where his friend’s birthday party was and I told him I was just going to stay in the cab and go home.  He got out and leaned back in to lay his parting words and a tiny ball of spit on me: “Remember me when gold isn’t worth a cent and all of the country’s wealth is in silver.  John told you so!”

DEACTIVATE.

PhishPhan81

16 Feb

Last night, I returned home from work with the intention of cooking dinner and going to bed by ten.  I’m taking a hiatus from drinking and have been astonishingly responsible and productive this week.  Funny how that works!  I was literally in my pajamas when “Ryan,” a guy from the website that I had blown off the night before, texted me to meet up.  In his profile pictures, he is in different stages of eating an apple under an apple tree.  I am not generally a fan of people who document themselves eating fruit, but he seemed nice so I yielded to his invitation.  The peculiar thing about this guy is that he has the same name as the guy my sister is dating, they both work in furniture shops, and they both ride motorcycles.  Weird.

We were meeting at a bar a few blocks from my apartment where I had been once before but barely remembered.  Now, it seemed I was the only Sober Sally in the whole place.  As I waited at the bar, I watched some drunk girls flirting with guys and wondered “am I that annoying when I’m intoxicated?”  Rhetorical question.  Ryan arrived and the first thing I noticed was his extreme outdoorsman gloves.  It was forty-five degrees outside and he told me he lived a block from the bar, so the fact that these gloves were joining us was a bit puzzling.  I sneaked a picture while he was ordering a beer and sent it to my sister, who responded with “Uh oh.”  Beyond the gloves, he was wearing a twill driving cap, a fleece jacket, and a sensible sneaker.  He was tallish, with brown hair, blue eyes, and a little bit of terrier face.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was entirely in charge of the conversation.  If I stopped probing him with questions, he would stare at me in silence until I asked him something else.  The only question he asked me was whether or not I smoke pot.  I answered “very rarely” and he seemed pretty disappointed.  We chatted about how I am originally from Wisconsin and he told me his ex-girlfriend was from Milwaukee, but that he had met her at a drum circle in Arizona.  It crossed my mind that he is most likely a huge Phish fan.  When I asked him what he likes to do aside from building furniture, he said his other passions are British candies and turning bowls.  It was loud and he was a mumbler, so I thought he said “training bulls.”  He thought I said “trimming balls.”  Oh dear.  When we finally sorted it all out, he spoke about the primitive art of bowl-making for what felt like an hour.  Apparently he spends a lot of time wondering if the first bowl ever was made from wood or clay.  When I couldn’t find words to offer up an opinion on this hot topic, he went on to conclude that the first bowl was probably just a pit in the ground.

He finished his beer and I told him I was exhausted and needed to go to bed at once.  I tried to give him a hearty handshake goodbye, but his gloves pulled me in for a hug.  I said he should text me and perhaps we could meet up again next week.  He pointed a glove at me and said “No, you text ME.”  Yeah, OK.

Grocery Ghosts

13 Feb

A couple days ago, I stopped at Trader Joe’s to procure some ingredients for a big dinner I was planning to make.  Operation “Staying Off the Streets and in the Kitchen” as I like to call it.  As usual, there was a massive line that wrapped halfway around the store and the little dudes in Hawaiian shirts were holding their “End of Line” signs somewhere betwixt the potatoes and the tortillas.  As I rounded the corner to join the line, my eyes locked with a familiar face.  I probably gasped audibly as I retreated and sought refuge in the raw meat aisle.  I looked a mess; no makeup, Thomas Jefferson hair, sweatshirt, and jeans.  Anyone who knows me knows that I rarely wear pants.  If you see me in jeans I’m either having some sort of personal crisis, or it’s a full moon.  I didn’t want to run into this individual looking like this, but was also in a hurry, so I took my chances and got in line.

Five years ago, I went to Pittsburgh to audition for the Civic Light Opera.  I was in school still and had traveled from Boston with an assortment of bright-eyed Sondheim-loving gals.  After the auditions, my classmates wanted to go back to the hotel and go to bed.  I had other ideas.  I met Jerad, with whom I had attended an intensive theatre program in Michigan for a summer when I was seventeen.  He went to college in Pittsburgh and that particular night happened to be his birthday.  We went back to his house where a big party was being held…and drinking games were taking place.  The game was very simple: play “Roxanne” by The Police and every time the name Roxanne is heard, everyone has to drink.  Let me tell you, the chorus in that song repeats a LOT of times.  Next thing I know, Jerad and I are behind closed doors in his room and I am pouring a bottle of expensive whiskey all over his naked body.

Five years later, I was in line at Trader Joe’s, holding shallots and prosciutto while peering creepily at the back of his head.  He was there with a girl, so it turned out neither of us wished to acknowledge the other.  I purchased my groceries and got out of there safe and sound.  That was enough excitement for one day, time to get back to the kitchen.

Trial & Errors

11 Feb

One of the pros of being on a dating website and having this blog is that I often wake up in the morning to messages like this:

“Hi, how are you. I am researcher in a Columbia University and new in USA. I need girlfriend here. I can’t speak English very well and I can’t understand very well. Do not be afraid, I am only not well. You looks very beautiful and I’d like to meet you a lot. Everybody likes me in my Country. I am a romance; like beautiful flowers; going to movie with you; sightseeing together New York, museums important building; to have sex; walking together hand in hand and kissing your lips. Maybe you can notice my green eyes. But don’t kiss, you can’t understand me. I am kissing very well (girls kissed by me say me). I think you send me an e-mail too. See you…”

On the other hand, the major con of it all is that when I meet a boy (not from the website) that I actually like, it is difficult for me not to screw it up.  In writing this blog, I have conditioned myself to constantly be looking for the humor in every situation with guys.  If I don’t take anything seriously, then when it ends in disaster it will only add to the hilarity and I won’t have to deal with feeling rejected or hurt.

The problem is, going out every night and being self-destructive aren’t attractive hobbies and I’ve heard they can be detrimental when someone is interested in getting to know you.  Not to mention I have been doing the whole bar scene for a number of years now and where has it gotten me?  Not very far.

A guy that I have only known for about a month recently told me that he wants to partake in activities with me that don’t involve drinking or going to bars.  “Sure no problem.  We could…”  I paused awkwardly for a little too long before the only sober ideas I could come up with were going to the library, canoeing (not easy to do in NYC), or arm-wrestling.  He thought I was making light of the situation.  What I was really trying to do was hide the fact that I couldn’t remember the last time I did anything with a date that didn’t involve alcohol.

Don’t get me wrong, the way to my heart has always been to take me to the worst dive bar you can think of; bonus points if there are dirty old men, cheap beer, and classic rock.  The aforementioned boy had actually done just that a couple weeks prior.  He took me to an awful Polish bar in Greenpoint where there were $1 jello shots and the only other patron was an old drunk asleep on the bar.  It was the best date I’ve been on in a long time.  Fast forward a couple weeks and he is expressing his desire to cut down on drinking.  So naturally the next time we hang out, what do I do?  Get drunk and make an ass of myself.  As you can probably guess, this did not go over well at all.

I guess the moral of the story is that, at 27, perhaps it’s time to grow up and stop acting like a 21 year old.  My protective bubble of booze and humor only gets me so far before I push people away.  Additionally, I think I’m a pretty creative person, so I should surely be able to come up with activities beyond drinking, arm-wrestling, and canoeing.  I mean come on, I live in New York!  There are a million things I want to do, and most of them aren’t found in the local bar.  My sanity and my bank account will thank me.

Sam the Sailor

6 Feb

“Sam” initially contacted me with the message “Ahoy, I like the cut of your jib.  My apologies if you’re offended by sailing metaphors.”  He looked cute in his picture so I read through his profile.  He was a musician and in the “About Me” section he described himself by saying “I’m a huge slob who dresses like he’s fifteen.”  Sold.

I met him for the first time at my favorite bar in the West Village, which one of my best friends works at.  We do this thing where as I’m walking over from work, I text the guy to let me know that he’s there and where he’s sitting.  I then text Stacy and ask her to scope out the situation and report back to me if he’s acceptable or not.  Cheating, I know.  She located Sam sitting near the bar and texted me that he looked like a young Patrick Swayze.  Stacy named her cat Catrick Swayze in honor of the late actor, so I took her description as a green light and entered the bar.  He was even more attractive in person, with a floppy blonde mohawk and bright blue eyes.  My “type” has always been dark-haired guys, but lately I have been expanding my horizons.

Sam was very easy to talk to and it didn’t feel like we were on a date, which was nice.  He had a dark, sarcastic sense of humor and used the word “buffoon” a lot.  He was a film school drop-out from Cape Cod (damn, another Masshole), lived in Brooklyn, and played drums in an indie-rock band.  He admitted to me that he wasn’t looking for a relationship and had used the website in the past just to hook up with girls.

I began to notice that he kept touching the bar.  First with one hand, then the other, followed by a quick glance at both of his palms.  It struck me as odd, but he was cute and fun so I didn’t think anything of it.

We stayed at the bar until Stacy got off and then went to another spot back in Brooklyn.  He came home with me that night for what would have been my first sensual encounter with an OKCupid date.  As it turned out, too many pickle-back shots inhibited the raising of the mast on that sailboat.

The next time we hung out, I realized that what I had noticed him doing with his hands before was much more prominent.  It became clear that the more intoxicated he got, the more he touched the bar and looked at his palms.  I asked him if he has OCD and he said “I don’t HAVE to look at my palms, but if there’s a delicious sandwich right in front of you, why not take a bite?”  I considered this analogy and concluded that it could be worse…at least he was only looking at his palms, not eating them.

A week or two later, I took my roommate to his band’s show at Union Hall.  My roommate has been known to get a little rowdy and try to embarrass me in front of guys.  One time in college, she pulled my pants down, underwear and all, in front of my whole theatre class and a few of my professors.  In between each of the songs at Sam’s band’s show, she kept shouting “OH MY GOD, THE DRUMMER IS SO HOT!” at the top of her lungs as I hid behind my pizza slice.  After the show, she cornered him while I was in the bathroom and told him that although he wasn’t feeling well, he had no choice but to come home with me.  I found this out later.

A similar scenario to the first time he came over occurred and I kicked him out in the wee hours of the morning after he littered on my property.  When I woke up, I had a text from him that read “I don’t know why I’m wearing pants and no underwear, my apologies for whatever that means.”  That was the last time we saw each other.

I never found his panties and have since moved out of that apartment, so they remain at large.

 

Brett Makes Art

3 Feb

Last month, I agreed to a blind date at Bacaro, an Italian restaurant in the Lower East Side.  I was nervous because I had only met people from the website for drinks, never dinner.  To make matters worse, all of the online reviews illustrated what a romantic date spot Bacaro is.  A romantic dinner with a complete stranger and I was wearing a gigantic unflattering turquoise sweater?  Disaster.  To calm my nerves, I had a glass of wine after work with a sympathetic coworker prior to meeting my date.  Upon finding the restaurant, the guy (we’ll call him “Brett”) immediately looked me up and down and I could tell he was unimpressed by my slight tardiness.  He looked older than thirty-five but had a fetal face, was skinny and pale, and I noticed his hairline had receded a bit further since his profile picture was taken.  He led me down some steps to a dimly lit lower level, explaining to me that he had a “usual table.”  The ambiance was, in fact, very romantic…the date was far from it.

It didn’t take long for me to glean that he was lacking in the personality department.  He seemed to take himself very seriously and I don’t recall him laughing or smiling once.  When I asked him what he did for a living, he answered abruptly with “I make art.”  Rather than explaining what that broad claim entailed, he began asking me questions in a manner that made me feel like I was at a job interview.  I could tell by his face whether or not I answered his questions “correctly”.  He winced when I told him I wasn’t using the website to find a serious relationship and said “Why do you go on dates then, to blog about them?”  I was caught off guard by this preposterous accusation and feigned shock, retorting “No, of course not!”  I assumed that was as close as he was going to get to making a joke.

When I reversed the interrogation, he instantly brought up his ex girlfriend who had moved to Germany.  I asked him how long ago that was and he said “August… well actually November… last month.”  He was getting a bit misty-eyed and for a moment I thought he was going to start crying at the table (most likely the same table he used to sit at with his ex).  This guy had been single for less than a month and was clearly desperate for a rebound.

I had the squid ink pasta, which was very enjoyable.  He managed a half-smile when I ordered, telling me his ex used to love that dish and would always get the black ink sauce all over her face.  Uhh…cute?  Following my pasta and a carafe or two of wine, I was ready to go, but he insisted on splitting a dessert.  The second the tiramisu hit the table, he announced that he wanted to hang out with me again– but just as friends, because the “chemistry wasn’t there.”  I was planning on not hanging out with him again period, but wasn’t going to hold a conference about it.  He felt the need to explain further, saying that I was too tall for him.  His ex girlfriend had been much shorter and thinner, so he was looking for “someone closer to her size.”  I put down my fork and considered how many calories I had just consumed.  He went on to report that I was too young and immature for him and, in his opinion, I need to speak from my diaphragm more.  Who are you, my graduate school acting coach?!  Last time I checked, you “make art.”  I’ve been vocally trained since I was a kid and you are critiquing my speaking voice?  I refrained from telling him to fuck off, reminding myself that he was picking up the bill, which was not cheap.

Although I asked him not to, he walked me to the train, apologizing profusely the whole time and reiterating his desire to hang out again.  I thanked him for dinner and got on the train.  On the way home, I decided I was more bewildered than offended.  I didn’t lie about my height, body type, age, or job on OkCupid, so he had known all of my stats prior to meeting me.  Maybe he was feeling burned by his recent break-up and was taking it out on all girls who weren’t his ex.  Or maybe he is just such an awful guy, his ex girlfriend had to move to Germany to escape him.

Good luck with that, Brett.