Archive | December, 2012

Best Blind Date Ever?

29 Dec

I’ve been so busy lately, I almost forgot to tell you about the last blind date I went on before deactivating my account!  Well, actually there was another one before that, but I stopped listening to him two sentences in after he asked if I liked “Jim Morrissey”… so I have nothing to say about him.

Anyway, three weeks ago I had planned to meet a guy at a wine bar down the street from my work.  I had given “Alex” my number prior to disabling my account, but, when he texted me, figured why not meet one last person before the holidays.  I recalled his pictures being cute and he was a writer with an impressive resumé.  The place where we were meeting was expensive and I was running low on funds that week, so I waited for Alex across the street at a pub.  Fifteen minutes before he was due to arrive he texted me that his event was running long and would I possibly be OK with coming to the Upper West Side?  He said he understood if I didn’t feel like it, but it was open bar, the cast of Saturday Night Live was there, and he would pay for my cab if I went.  ARE YOU KIDDING?  You had me at open bar.  I jumped in a cab and tried to connect-the-dots on my eyeliner in the backseat, wishing I hadn’t dressed like a butch little league coach that day.

The cab dropped me off at the Museum of Natural History (which was obviously closed for the night) and I waited for Alex at a side door by Central Park.  Soon, a nicely-dressed young man walked briskly around the corner and introduced himself as Alex.  The first thing he did as we walked into the museum was pay me back for the cab.  I felt weird taking money from someone I didn’t know (especially someone letting me be their plus-one to a private event), but he insisted.  We passed black bears, moose, and tigers, descending into the center of the museum, underneath a gigantic whale.  “This is Hmakfhajsd,” Alex introduced me to an older man, “it’s his party.”  As we made our way to the bar, he explained that the man was a chief executive for IFC and we were at the season three premiere party for “Portlandia.”  I looked around and gathered that the museum had been garnished in Portland-themed decor– giant ice sculptures with bicycles frozen inside, birdhouses made of wine corks, and dozens of terrariums.  Alex ordered me a double glass of wine after seeing how small the original pour was (my hero), and we made our way past multiple people I recognized from various TV shows to a couch in the corner.

“Wow,” I said, “I see famous people at work all the time, but I’ve never been in a room with so many of them at once.”  He smiled an aww-she’s-from-the-Midwest smile.  It turned out Alex knows just about everyone.  And he has written articles for Vanity Fair, New York Magazine, and (my favorite) the “Ask a Guy” column in Glamour Magazine.  Apparently he is one of the men who respond to reader questions such as “I haven’t seen my boyfriend in two months.  Is he cheating?” or “What is a blow job?  How do I make one?”  This fun tidbit easily eclipsed the free wine, the bike in ice, and the fact that David Cross had just walked by.

I always make fun of the people who move to New York and talk about how they totally just had a “New York Moment” because they went on 75 auditions, then saw “Mary Poppins” on Broadway then ate frozen yogurt bareback on a horse while singing “Don’t Rain on My Parade” all in one day!!!!  But, as I rode home in a cab that Alex (maybe the nicest man ever) yet again had paid for, I concluded that I had just experienced a New York Moment.


Dear Friend

29 Dec

Have I mentioned that all my friends from back home have a couple of screws loose?  Ah well… I’m one to talk!  I received this email from a significant old friend of mine two days after seeing him briefly over the holidays.  While unrequited infatuation seemed to be the motif of the month, he is a lovely writer and, by far, the wittiest person I know.  And yes, I had to look up “anamnesis.”

“Hey hey–
Insomnic, somnolent, my eyes are glazed, my toes are cold. I should have stayed in bed.
I finally thought to myself: ‘Self, let’s see what she has been up to.’ So I read your blog. You’re a gifted writer, no doubt. Humor and candor are hard to combine.
What a difference between Jeff and I! There are friends, and there are friends. You and I… I know I’ve been deluded, but… I finally saw myself as you see me. I’m ashamed. Distressed. Disappointed. I admit to a profound sadness.
Above everything else, I’m sorry. Really, just sorry for everything. Years ago I had an epiphany; tonight the anamnesis is bitter. I have no complaints. I’m grateful for the heartache, though it’s perverse.
No response would be best. If I want to remind myself what I am to you, I know where to look. Please enjoy the book, Ignatius is someone I have sympathy for. Consider it a souvenir for your trouble.
I will always be available to you, if you should have a need. I will always care for you. From a distance.
Anyway. I guess all that’s left is–

I’m sorry, dear friend, for posting your private email.  But if you aren’t going to exhibit your writing, someone should.  And I surely wouldn’t have the “humor and candor” I have today without you keeping me on my toes all those years.


And It’s Fun to Think About

23 Dec

There is a box on OKCupid profiles where you establish your astrological sign, then tell potential matches whether or not you take any stock in astrology.  Most guys on the website give their sign, but specify that they don’t care about it (that’s the manly thing to do).  I checked “Scorpio, and it’s fun to think about.”

While my sister and I waited to board our flight home, I expressed my concern that I sometimes come off as a bitch to guys I like.  She responded “Maybe the reason men see you as a drinking buddy or a rebound is because you put them down and turn everything into a joke.”  I considered several brash statements I’ve made to two different guys and realized she might be right…

“Did you spray yourself with Febreeze before you came out tonight?”
“You seem taller than I remember… are you wearing heels?”
“My coworkers know you as ‘The Chimichanga Guy’ because you only eat chimichangas.”
“Your hair looks like a newborn kitten!”
“Wow, and I thought I didn’t have a filter.  Let’s see if you can go five whole minutes without talking.”
“Why do you always eat raw onions before we hang out?”

Now hold on, before you write me off as a big jerk…  I know that I do this as a sort of defense mechanism.  If I’m in a situation where I feel nervous or unsure I tend to cover up my insecurities with bad jokes.  If I insult someone, chances are that I like him– if I don’t make fun of him, I’m probably bored.  Makes total sense, right?

Yesterday I found an astrology book in my old bedroom and flipped to my sign.  When I got to the part about Scorpio women and relationships, a paragraph caught my eye.  I ran downstairs and read it to my sister.  See!  There is an explanation for my obtuse tactics.  It’s right here in this book!

From Gary Goldschneider’s Everyday Astrology:
“Affection and the Scorpio–  Scorpios often express affection through making jokes or even hurling insults, with a twinkle in their eyes.  You are supposed to know that this is, in fact, affection, and Scorpios expect you to never be offended by it… Scorpio humor is rather strange in that it often involves making fun of the other person… Once Scorpios make such a statement they are likely to inflict further hurt (unintentionally, of course) by giving a provocative smile or even a full-throated chuckle or outright laugh.  The trick is not to react negatively, but instead to laugh along with them.”

I looked at my sister with relief, as if everything I have ever said and wished I could take back after the fact was so easily excused.  Her answer was simple…

“But no one will know that unless they have this book.”

Oh yeah.

The Showmance

18 Dec

When I was in grad school, I briefly dated a man with really small hands.  The tiniest little marmot paws.  The hands of a child.  And by “dated” I of course mean we had a “showmance.”  For those of you who don’t fancy yourself a current or former thespian, a “showmance” is a melodramatic, often short-lived relationship two people embark upon whilst in a play or some other type of show together.  Everything happens very fast– one day you’re singing and doing light choreography, the next you’re getting groped by miniature extremities in a stairwell.

The show we both happened to be in was a sex musical.  It was based on the book “Sex: An Oral History” and was developed by a fairly esteemed musical theatre duo who decided to workshop it at my school.  The premise was comprised of a series of vignettes, where the main guy travels the country, interviewing a diverse cast of characters about their sexual practices.  In it, I played three different characters: a ditzy coke-head in a night club, a teenaged boy playing basketball and bragging about his sexual exploits with his best friend, and finally, a sexy call girl.

“Dan” played my best friend in the teenaged boy/basketball segment.  So basically, while we were having a showmance, we had to dribble basketballs onstage together, wearing sleeveless Abercrombie tees and singing about “finger-banging” girls.  It takes true talent to pretend to be a boy, dribble a ball, AND sing all at the same time I’ll have you know.

In addition to his petite appendages, he had a lisp and a girlfriend.  She was older and lived in another state.  I like to think her name was Bess, because that is a good name for a squatty older thespian who has a mustache and loves improv.  There was also a rumor going around town that he was bisexual and had propositioned a few gentlemen.  I chose to ignore these minor idiosyncrasies and drink a lot of champagne.  Our showmance ended when the show did– and when he got back together with his ex-girlfriend (don’t they always?)

We ended up making a cast recording of the show, which I am on, singing about losing my virginity and the “pureness” of being a prostitute.  A real family keepsake.  The other day I had my ipod on shuffle and my duet with Dan came on.  I could barely listen through the whole song because it is so silly.  It also reminded me that, after the show ended, we all went to a studio in Boston to record the CD.  Dan’s solo was the last one scheduled to be recorded and mine was one of the first.  His newly re-acquired girlfriend was in town and he was whining about not being able to hang out with her that night.  I, trying to show him that I was unshaken by his dismissal of me, offered to switch time slots.  When it was finally time to record my solo, it was late at night and I was the last one there.  I had fallen asleep in the lobby and on the recording my voice sounds raspy and uneven.  I guess that works for the character of a seasoned hooker, but I was still pissed.  Sometimes I am too nice.

Come to think of it, most of my relationships up until my mid-20s stemmed from showmances.  Maybe that’s why I’m so good at dating!

Suitors of the Week 8

13 Dec

I recently disabled my OKCupid account so I can focus on being a person during the holiday season.  Before I did, however, I selected some of my favorite messages from the past couple weeks to share with you:

“Hello my name is Evan and I work at UPS in which I really love my job.  My favorite movie is You Don’t Mess with the Zohan with Adam Sandler.  I do like other films besides the Zohan movie and besides Adam Sandler films.  I like Star Wars 1,2,3,4,5, and 6.” —  Wait a minute, I’m confused.  It is a known fact that UPS men in New York City are ballers… but this man sounds like a first class dweeb.  He must have meant to say he works for Fedex.  Oh well, at least he can count to six!

“What are you up to this weekend, would you like to join me for a cup of something wonderful and some orgasmic conversation?  We’ll make it a quick meeting of 15 minutes and if you’re REALLY psycho, then I could run away and live!”  —  All you need to know about this guy is that his screen name was Cockasaurus, which makes his message even more nauseating.  I’m sure the “psycho” bit really wins him a lot of points with the ladies.  And what is in a cup of something wonderful?  Money?  A genie?  Restitution for the time I wasted reading this message?  No?  Not interested then.

“Wow, we haven’t even left your profile yet and already we miss you!  Have you ever been on a date with two boys before? -Super M and Red October.”  —  What in the world?!  Bi-curious undercover supervillains ARE real!

“Hi, my name is Omar and I’m a interesting person.  I would like to know you.  If that is too much then please allow me to share my stories.  Thank you.”  —  Hi, my name is Sara and you would come up to my shoulder.  This guy’s stats tell me that he is 5’2″ and “really good at pillow fights.”  I’m intrigued by these stories, though.  Especially if they also involve slumber party activities in which pubescent girls of the 1950s partook.

ME:  Dare
GUY 1:  I’m waiting on a meeting to start. I’m sitting in the waiting room of a realllllllly pimp office in Hudson Square….the view is amazing, but this wait is tooooo long.  Now for the dare: snap a naked photo in front of a mirror while blowing me a kiss and send to my cell ***-***-****
GUY 1:  BOOOOOM!!!!!  Client signed! Wish you could see my touchdown dance
ME:  Truth
GUY 1:  Can I take you out for a drink?
ME:  Truthfully?  Absolutely not.
—  Obviously I didn’t take him up on his dare because I’m not a Floridian stripper.  This sleaze-ball is a prime example of why OKCupid has comment moderators.

GUY 2:  What’s Michelle Obama’s favorite vegetable?
ME:  I give up.
GUY 2:  Baraccoli
ME:  Ah, that’s a nice dad joke.
GUY 2:  Did you ever hear about the girl who didn’t have any arms?
ME:  Does this have to do with falling off a swing?
GUY 2:  No.  Her name was Annie.  Knock Knock.
ME:  Who’s there.
GUY 2:  Not Annie  :(
—  His second joke reminded me of when I was auditioning for undergraduate musical theatre programs several years ago.  At the end of my audition for the University of Michigan, the chair of the department asked me to tell them a joke.  The only jokes I knew were (and still are) about poop or penises, which I obviously couldn’t use.  So I told them a horrid joke about some poor amputee girl falling off a swing set.  No one laughed (they were too busy scowling) and the accompanist gave me a sympathetic cringe as she handed me my music and I exited the room.  As you can imagine, I did not get accepted into that program.  If only GUY 2 had contacted me nine years earlier, I’d be on Broadway by now!

Rock Paper Scissors

6 Dec

Let us travel back in time again to my senior year of college.  One night, I attended a house party deep in central Missouri with a few of my friends.  A girl I was with was dating a tenant of this house, and he lived with a slew of other young men.  I had my eye on one in particular.  His name was Bolten and he had a huge lightening bolt tattooed across his back.  Right up my alley.

Much of the usual college tomfoolery transpired at the party, but my favorite was a little game called Strip Rock Paper Scissors (I may or may not have introduced this game to the undergraduate population at my school).  A select group of partygoers hid upstairs in one of the guy’s rooms where we locked the door and began to play.  The boys were almost naked, Bolten bare-assed on his roommate’s desk chair, but my friend and I still had on our bras and jeans (we were old pros at SRPS).  All of a sudden we heard frantic knocking and shouting coming from the hallway, “GET THE F&%# OUT OF MY ROOM!”  The angry roommate karate-kicked the door in and screamed at us to leave at once.  It was later revealed to me that he was an extreme germaphobe with OCD.  That desk chair was never sat on again.

Bolten asked me out a few days later and we kissed under the awning of a used video game store.  He had a huge fro of curly black hair, giant blue eyes, the kind of lips that always look wet, and a penchant for optical illusion shirts.  At some point, he accompanied me back to my apartment and we made out on my bed.  Before anything else could happen, he said he had something he needed to tell me… “I might… uh… have one or two… umm… TINY……… warts.”   I leapt from my bed like it was on fire and he said he was going to go.  I had never met anyone with an STD before and I wasn’t about to scrutinize his Johnson under a microscope like that science class where I had to scoop around in a pond and then examine its scum.

Actually, that’s not true– I had met someone else with an STD.  My freshman year suite-mate had announced to me on move-in day that she had genital herpes and that we would be fine sharing a toilet… as long as she didn’t decide to use my soap in the shower.  She also said that I would know when she was having an outbreak because she would be in her room laying naked and spread-eagle for days.  I petitioned for a new roommate to no avail, so I ended up just removing everything that was mine from the shower each time I bathed.  I didn’t have much room for my stuff in the bathroom anyway, as she kept a lifetime supply of Sweet Love Douches lined up on the shelves.  I’m not kidding.  She was from Arkansas and was dating a dwarf with beads in his beard, and the only reason she went to college was to get away from her mother… who was having a lesbian affair with her (my suite mate’s) best friend.  She dropped out at the end of the semester and I moved off-campus.

Anyway.  I had mixed feelings about Bolten.  On one hand, it was very mature and respectable that he had told me about his genital warts.  On the other hand, I was in a glam R&B group called ChoCha with three of my friends, and it was PERFECT material for my next hit song.  Here are the lyrics:

Please Leave On the Shorts, If You Got the Warts

Please leave on the shorts if you got the warts
Please leave on the shorts if you got the warts

You may speak Spanish, you may have a tattoo
But there’s a better reason why I won’t get with you
Loungin’ in the desk chair completely nude
I’m starting to think you’re a real super dude
The lights are low, you’re covered in hair
And of your ailment I’m not yet aware.


Just found out your mother dresses you
But it’s still not enough to keep me from you, boo
(Spoken) “YET!”
I still like your hair, I have no fears
Until you stole my friend’s QTips to clean out your ears
You made me spoon, you forgot to take Prozac
Player, get your own masseuse cuz I ain’t gonna scratch yo back!


Just burned my sheets, had to buy a new cover
When I found out about your warts you couldn’t be my lover
Somewhere in your seven you got a disease
But unlike ingrown hairs, that shit lasts eternities


(Spoken) “You might wanna wash your hands after this…”

A Rebounder Gets Rebounded

5 Dec

With the end of 2012 comes my one year mark on OKCupid.  Granted I took several breaks when I froze my account for periods of time… but it seems like just yesterday I was filling out the asinine questions and perusing potential first dates.  After the treacherous journey through my year of online dating, I can report that I found: a lot of crazy people who were interesting to talk to (but whom I would never date), a handful of guys who have become my friends, and only a couple of guys I actually felt would be a good match for me.  But hey, the year’s not over yet!  Here is the gripping tale of the first guy I actually liked that I met on OKCupid.  We’ll call him George.

I first met George waaay back in April, the same week I dealt with Judgmental Jonah and Moose on the Loose.  The night we met, I was frazzled and not at all looking forward to the date at hand.  George had peaked my interest, however.  He didn’t have a profile picture up yet, but had sent me a link to several “non-gross” pictures of him so I could see he was legit.  He also mentioned that he wrote for The Onion and knew all about my hometown (where The Onion originated).

I got to the bar early to order a salad since I hadn’t eaten yet that day (maybe Jonah’s insult hurt my feelings more than I let on).  George texted me to say he was going to be a few minutes late and I considered ditching him and going to a friend’s party instead.  I can’t stand him up that would be rude, I thought as a squirrelly man scampered in and I prepared myself for the usual awkward introductions.  I couldn’t exactly remember George’s pictures and thought this squirrel looked as if he might be an OKCupid person… but he walked right past me.  Not him.  As I turned back around a tall, attractive man with a nice beard and pretty eyes walked up to me on my other side and said “Hi, I’m George, sorry I’m late.”  Whoa.  It was the first time (up to that point) that I had been instantly physically attracted to a blind date.

George had a dry sense of humor and we got along really well.  We laughed at some of the ridiculous pick up lines I have gotten from guys online and I was surprised at how comfortable I felt around him.  Being the Cynical Cynthia I am, I was waiting for something to be wrong with this guy because it all seemed a little too much like an eHarmony commercial.  We did a shot and he shared that I was his first ever OKCupid date (uh oh…) and that he had just gotten out of a four year relationship (and… there it is!) with a butcher (come again?)  He said “Wow, if all my OKCupid dates go as well as this one I’m going to love this website!”  I grimaced into my beer mug and thought about all the terrible blind dates I had gone through to get to one good one.  I decided to push this conversation out of my mind and just enjoy my time with George… so I invited him to come to my friend’s party and surprisingly he said he would love to.  Of course my friends all really liked him and, after a couple more beers, we headed to one last bar.  Soon, the OKCupid app came out and we chatted with this 22-year-old stoner kid who had been contacting me all week.  We convinced him that we were Siamese twins conjoined at the crotch, and if he wanted to meet me he would have to be cool with my open-minded bearded twin with a heart of gold.  Sharing a cab home, it took all I had not to invite him up to my apartment.  My demure behavior didn’t last long, however.

We went out again a week later, this time in his neighborhood.  At the end of the night he invited me back to his place and, although I obviously wanted to go, my sister’s words from earlier echoed through my head: “Whatever you do, don’t sleep with him!”  I had told her about his recent breakup and she didn’t want me to get involved.  Well, as you may have guessed, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.  He was subletting his apartment since moving out of his ex-girlfriend’s place and everything there belonged to someone else.  Someone who liked philosophy books, protein shakes, and dentist’s office art.  We made out on the couch, then I told him I should go.  He pulled me closer and said “I think I’ve made it clear that I like you.”  Well alright, if you put it that way!

The next morning he was really sweet; putting his arm around me, buying me coffee, etc.  I returned home in the best mood ever– the sky was blue again, the screaming Hasidic children were cute again, you get the idea.  Later that day, for some reason I decided to check my old OKCupid account I still had from screwing with The Artist after he stood me up.  I hadn’t checked it in ages and logged on with the intention to delete it.  When I glanced at the messages in the inbox, my heart sank.  George had messaged my fake girl!  He said the girl in the photos was so beautiful and her responses so funny that he simply HAD to buy her a drink.  I had answered the questions in a ridiculous manner since the profile wasn’t real (for example, under “Have you ever smelled the underwear of someone other than your significant other?” I wrote “Of course, I sniff all my colleagues panties.”)  I was beginning to get the feeling that he was just trying to sleep with as many girls as possible to get over his ex.

When we hung out a week later, I didn’t tell him about the fake account thing but I definitely didn’t feel as comfortable around him.  He took me out to dinner in Fort Greene, then to a bar in Clinton Hill.  We eventually made it back to my place, where he seemed to, um, let out some pent-up aggression in my bed chambers.  He was pretty stand-offish the next morning and I felt a little used and a lot perplexed because I’d never met a man with an ear fetish before.  George told me he’d “drop a line” when he got back from a trip he was taking the following week. “Drop you a line” is on par with “take care” in terms of incredibly impersonal things you can say to someone who has seen your awkward inner thigh tattoo multiple times.  I knew he wouldn’t actually “drop me a line” when he got back, but since I obviously had abandoned all reason and dignity at this point, I texted him a couple weeks later.

We saw each other one or two more times after that.  Same routine: I text him, we drink together, maybe play a hand or two of Uno, he sleeps over, then stops texting me.  The lack of correspondence between our “dates” had become a pattern, but we had such a good time when we were together I tried to convince myself he was just busy.  Soon though, I decided I should stop seeing him as I had begun to develop feelings and he clearly wasn’t on the same page.  Or even on the same bookshelf for that matter.  This decision was justified when, a few weeks later, I got a text from him saying that he was getting back together with his ex-girlfriend.  Didn’t see that one coming!… Perhaps the time I came back from the bathroom to him texting her on my futon should have been a clue.  That was sarcasm, I totally saw that coming.

Sure, I was a little disappointed, but I certainly wasn’t heartbroken in the least.  He was the definition of a Category 3 from the start and it serves me right for prolonging it when he displayed all the warning signs of a man on the rebound.  And I did the exact same thing when I broke up with my boyfriend two years ago, so who am I to judge?

Here is my advice to you, my friends:

1.  Be wary of a man who has just recently gotten out of a long-term relationship.  Especially if you met the guy on the internet.

2.  Don’t get your hopes up because you are most likely a rebound.  If that’s alright with you, rock on sister.  If it’s not alright, get out now.  Preferably before you start thinking his slight Californian lisp is the cutest thing and it’s OK that he has a flat butt.

3.  Do NOT, whatever you do, sleep with him on the second, third, maybe even fourth date.  Just don’t do it.  It seals your fate as “that weird girl I hooked up with for a couple months last spring… what was her name?”  Also, he’s likely banging at least one or two other people… maybe even his ex.

But don’t you always want what you can’t have even more when it’s evident from day one that it’s off limits?  Ah well, live and learn.  Next time I think I’ll pass on being someone’s rebound.

Milton the Mortician

2 Dec

Last night I went on a blind date with a man named Milton at a bar called The Magician in the Lower East Side.  I arrived first and was dismayed to find that there were, in fact, no magicians at The Magician.  There were a lot of gay men and balloons, however.  As I sat and waited at the bar, an old man with wooden teeth and a partially-healed head wound sat as close to me as he could.  “You’re good looking, I can tell… Who’s keeping you warm tonight?.. You’re not waiting until marriage are you?” were just a few of his disturbing attempts to lure me.  At last Milton arrived.  Although I had hoped someone named Milton would be wearing slacks, a top hat, and a monocle, he was actually wearing jeans and a purple shirt.  We moved to a table and I realized that I had set up a date with an undertaker.  Not really, I think he worked for Fox News or something… but his slow, deep voice and lack of any facial expression whatsoever made me wonder if he delivered eulogies in his free time.

We stayed at The Magician for exactly one drink before he suggested we go to a goth bar down the street.  Everyone there was dressed in their best gothic attire and it was incredibly dark and smoky.  I struggled to keep the conversation going as Milton the Mortician stared so hard at the candle on the table, I wondered if he was trying to will the flame out with his soul.  When the girl sitting at the table to my right threw up all over the floor, Milton suggested we head to a bar in Brooklyn instead.  His exact words were “I’m feeling good.  Are you good, kid?”  Umm, yes?  He was paying for a cab, so naturally I found this suggestion to be to my advantage.

The third location of the evening was a metal bar in South Williamsburg.  It was covered in all sorts of music/death paraphernalia and had a giant wheel you can spin to win gross things to drink.  I spun and got a Guinness.  Gross.  I pondered why Milton kept prolonging the evening if he didn’t have anything to say.  He was cute: tall, dark, broad features… but had strange matter in his hair and something on his nostril that had been bugging me since the magic bar.  I studied his stoic expression and silent stare and decided that maybe I was wrong about him being a mortician.  He was most likely a zombie.  As my beer came to an end, he still hadn’t eaten my brains, so I got up to use the restroom.  When I returned to the table, I saw that he was on his OKCupid app, checking out available girls in the area.  OKCupid has a feature called “Locals” where, if you turn it on, it shows your general location to other people looking to meet for a quick-fix in your proximity.  The feature freaks me out and reminds me of Grindr, so I always keep mine off.  Perusing for another girl to meet up with while you’re still out with the first one?  That’s a no no.

I started to put on my coat and he came back to life for a second, saying “You want to know why I chose you to go out with?”  Well, you make it sound like you are either shopping for the best deal on cold cuts at your local deli or that I am about to be your next victim in a long line of serial slayings… but why, pray tell, was I chosen?  “Because you look exactly like Aubrey Plaza.”  Apparently The Mortician was a Parks and Recreation fan.  The only reason I know about this actress is because I looked her up after someone mistook me for her and asked for my autograph at a bagel store in Boston.  Hey, I’ll take it… she’s cute, right?  Way better than when an old man with a cane told me I looked like Flo from the Progressive commercials and I shed a tear at my part-time job.  I told Milton he looked like Adam Beach, who, for those of you who don’t know Law and Order SVU, was the worst actor ever to star on that show.  He really did look a lot like him though… if Adam Beach was a zombie.

Outside, we gave each other a dry goodbye and he took off down the street, presumably to go meet another OKCupid girl and stare silently at inanimate objects for a couple more hours.

Ahhh, another date where I leave with my life.