Tag Archives: Dating

The Veterinarian

13 Jul

There is a restaurant in my neighborhood that has good burgers and a cute bartender whom I like to look at while I eat.

One evening, I was enjoying some dinner and the view, when a pair of late 30-somethings started to get a little rowdy next to me.  I looked over to see what all the commotion was about and saw one of them holding up an image of Alf dressed as an asparagus.  The skinnier of the two noticed me eyeing their altercation and included me in the conversation.  I had no information to offer on the Alf topic… but received some unfortunate information on the cute bartender topic: it turned out they were his friends and he had a serious girlfriend of nine years.

The larger man left shortly thereafter and I stayed to chat with the skinny one.  He never smiled and pretty much only had one facial expression– a puzzled look with slightly crossed eyes.  He was dressed like a cast member from Roseanne and looked remarkably like a young Bob Saget.  He had glasses, a prominent nose, and hair that looked like amber waves of grain– like you could pull a fistful of it and it would break off into a million pieces and blow away down a sunny hillside.  “Peter,” as we’ll call him, was thirty-nine, worked at another bar in Bushwick, and dreamed of being a veterinarian.  But not an actual veterinarian, oh no.  He wanted to PLAY a veterinarian in a small role on a TV show or commercial.  He went on and on about how much he loved acting and wanted to make a full career out of it even though he had never taken an acting class, or been in a play, or done anything except stand in a sea of extras in one shot for an episode of some TV show.  When he learned that I went to school for theatre he asked if I wanted to take turns filming each other doing three contemporary monologues each.  I told him I’ve been out of the loop for a couple years and am thus unfamiliar with the current veterinarian repertoire.

I ran into Peter around my neighborhood multiple times after that.  He always talked nonstop about himself and his “acting career” and never asked me anything about my life.  Come to think of it I’m not sure he ever even knew my name.  He also sent me constant text updates like “almost had a line on set today, but they gave it to someone else,” and “just submitted my headshot to play another veterinarian.  Keep your fingers crossed.”  His headshot, by the way, was a selfie he had taken of himself wearing a lab coat and looking confused.  He stayed over at my place once (don’t recall how that happened) and kept trying to kiss me, but I was too weirded out by him so I moved to the extreme edge of my bed and barricaded myself with a fortress of pillows.  The next morning I woke up at 6 a.m. and shrieked about how I had to go into town right away, like we lived in rural Mississippi in the early 1900s.

The next time I saw him after that, he was displeased with me.  Apparently he had found me on Twitter and seen a tweet where I referred to him as a “Bob Saget impersonator.”  He accused me of flirting with other men at the bar and told me that I don’t take him seriously.  Welllll.  I didn’t realize we had a “thing,” but whatever it was needed to cease and desist, so I stopped responding to him.

The last text I ever got from Peter was: “ever had a grape chia synergy drink?  One just exploded on my shirt and pants while opening it and the chia seeds stuck to my clothes.  Kinda cool.  Gonna leave them on there for awhile.”  I haven’t seen him since, so I’m assuming he got beamed back up to whatever planet he and Alf are from.


The Hawaiian

11 Jun

After being absent from OKCupid for over a year, I suddenly had an urge the other night to throw together a quick profile and see what kind of fun I’ve been missing.  The next morning, my inbox was already overflowing with countless messages of the “Hey, wats up?” variety.  One in particular stood out from the rest, reading “Aloha, how are you enjoying this beautiful day?”  I clicked on his profile to confirm my suspicions– indeed, I had a Hawaiian on my hands!  I had never gone out with a Hawaiian before, and to me they seem almost as elusive as a person from Delaware.

The Hawaiian appeared to be large and jolly, as I envision most male Hawaiians to be, but also seemed cute and laid back.  I was momentarily startled after he appeared to be giving “the shocker” in one of his profile pictures, but upon further investigation discovered it to be some sort of Hawaiian hand vernacular.  The other part of his profile that struck me as odd was the selection he checked off for his body type: “Full-figured.”  With options like “More to love,” “A little extra,” and my personal favorite “Used up,” why in the world would a man select “Full-figured?”  That makes me think of a big ol’ bra.

I canceled on The Hawaiian the first night we had planned to meet, but agreed to get drinks the following night.  He was immediately recognizable when he entered the bar because he was, in fact, a big kahuna.  We sat and chatted about Hawaiian topics– sea mammals, surfing, leis, etc.  He was very amiable and easy to talk to.  He offered to teach me how to surf.  He bought me a drink and then a shot.  He walked me to my door and asked to come up for a moment while he called a car service.  Ahhh, this Hawaiian was very smooth and my guard was down.  I agreed, breaking my number one rule about bringing blind dates home with me (hey, I’ve been out of practice for awhile).

Once inside my apartment, I went to the bathroom while he called for a car.  I was barely gone two minutes… but came back out to find that he had taken off all of his clothes and was fully nude, standing in the middle of the room.   I didn’t quite know what to say, so I went with “uhhh, did you call a car?” as if his bare papayas weren’t staring me in the face.  “They said fifteen minutes” he replied, still neither of us moving.  I was going to have to grab the bull by the horns in this situation.  I told him that we would at least need to have a second date before giving each other the Full Nude Review.  He said he understood and got dressed again (which somehow took way longer than the undressing had) and at last a horn honked outside.

I sent a polite follow-up message the next morning, assuming I probably wouldn’t hear from him again.  Boy, was I wrong.  All day long The Hawaiian sent me texts such as “I need more of you ASAP,” “What would you do to me if I was there right now?”, and “Will your sister care if I come over and rip off all your clothes?”  Obviously from here on out I will have to be better about reinforcing my “no house calls on the first date” rule.  Especially when it comes to a man who probably spent much of his life wearing nothing but grass skirts.

The Chip

20 May

I met Matthew a couple months ago after I stopped at a local bar on my way home to get out of the freezing rain.   I was coming from a previous bar in the West Village where a drunken she-beast had stolen my coat and I was pretty upset.  Not long after I arrived, Matthew approached me and asked if he could buy me a drink to cheer me up.  He was cute and things could not have gotten much worse at that point, so I figured “why not?” and gave him my number.  The next morning I received a text from him asking if he could take me out for drinks that night.  Our “date” was fairly uneventful, but fun… we talked and drank beers in outdoor chair swings at a new bar in my neighborhood.  He had recently moved here from Los Angeles and expressed that he wants to meet new people so he can get involved in the club scene and rooftop party scenarios (to which I told him he’s got the wrong gal for that sort of business).  He was sweet, but slightly effeminate– perhaps just a little too perfectly preened for my liking.  Before parting ways, he gave me a brief kiss goodnight and I kind of felt like I was kissing a delicate lady.  Over the next few days he texted me a lot about going out to dinner.  I wasn’t sure if things had reached meal-level just yet, so I invited him to see my sister’s friend’s band play instead.

The night of the show, my sister and I chatted awkwardly with Matthew for an hour or so before the the band started playing.  He was virtually silent at first, but after two or three beers began talking non-stop about electrical wiring.  After my sister left, we moved to the bar for one more round and suddenly Matthew’s entire demeanor changed drastically.  Out of nowhere he started raising his voice about how everyone in Brooklyn is racist.  I was so shocked at this hostile turn of events, I just sat there with my mouth open.  “No one wants to talk to me when I go out!” he yelled, “why do I have to be the problem, why aren’t YOU PEOPLE the problem?!”  Oh dear.  I gently reminded him that I had gone out with him multiple times after meeting him in a bar, but he wasn’t listening.  He kept getting more and more worked up, to the point where he was sobbing and shouting “I never knew my father!  I was raised by a white woman, how am I supposed to know who I am!?”  I was torn between running out the door as fast as I could and staying to make sure he was okay because he was so upset.  “You are judging others more than they are judging you,” I told him, “people only care about whether or not you seem like a good person whom they would want to be around.”  In between sobs, he screamed “look around you!  Everyone in this bar is white!”  Clearly this conversation was going nowhere, so I suggested maybe he should leave if he didn’t like the bar.  “I’m not leaving!  You leave!  THIS IS MY BAR NOW!”  That’s it.  I told him I had already listened to his belligerent rant long enough and I was not going to entertain him any longer.  I turned to leave, but he aggressively grabbed my arm to stop me.  “Please don’t go, I’m sorry… Promise me that we can just pretend this didn’t happen and keep hanging out… I really need friends… Just tell me you’ll see me again.”  I looked around for the bartender I know in hopes that he would diffuse the situation, but he was no where in sight.  “To be honest?  No, I don’t want to see you again.  You obviously have a chip on your shoulder and need to work through some things for yourself.”  I pulled away from his grasp and ran out as quickly as possible, hiding around the corner from the bar and peering back to make sure he wasn’t following me.  What the hell just happened?!

The next day I received a text from Matthew that said  “I’m really sorry about last night and I’d really like to see you again.  Please know the chip on my shoulder isn’t me, it’s the chip.”  Uhhhh, what?  I told my coworkers the story about what had happened, to which one of them exclaimed “where on Earth do you FIND these people?!”  The bar…

Small World

27 Mar

I must confess: I have a favorite pick up line.  Not that I parade around town trying to pick people up all the time, but it’s nice to know I have it in my back pocket in case of emergency.

Imagine you have spied a pleasing prospect sitting near you at your local watering hole.  Casually do a double-take at him and say "You look really familiar, but I can’t place how I know you… is your name Bill?”  Or whatever name pops into your head at the moment.  The worst he can do is say "No sorry, you have the wrong person” and walk away.  But that usually doesn’t happen.  Usually there will be some sort of cute exchange, followed by an exchanging of real names, and the next thing you know you’re exchanging phone numbers.  My success rate with this method has been high and I was very confident in my execution… until one night when I encountered a small error.

On this particular evening, my coworker and I were out at a bar and she was on the prowl.  After several rounds of tequila, she expressed her interest in a tall, Nordic-looking individual a few seats down.  She thought he was cute, but didn’t know how to start a conversation.  I told her to watch and learn.

“Hey!  Is your name Mike?”
“Yeah it is… do I know you?”
“Oh shit.”

I saved face by “figuring out” that he was NOT the same Mike who was a mutual friend of my imaginary boyfriend’s half-sister whom I had met at a party.  Oops, silly me!  Despite my awkwardly spot-on name guessing, it still worked out for my friend because they soon began dancing and eventually pinning each other against the wall in a sensual embrace.  Meanwhile, his nerdy friend had started talking to me and, although he kind of looked like the offspring of Mr. Bean and an extraterrestrial, I felt left out so I danced with him.  Both guys were comedians (who isn’t these days), and they were both very peculiar dancers.  The guy I was with moved like he was attempting a deep gyration atop the highest of crow’s nests on the most blustery day at sea.  But I still let him kiss me before we left as Mike and my friend were exchanging numbers.

A week later, my coworker texted me before work saying that she had to tell me something.  All of the terrible possibilities of what it could be ran through my head.  Was I in trouble for something at work?  Did something bad happen to her?

“Remember that twenty-four year old comedian you made out with last week?” was how I was greeted upon arrival.  "Vaguely.”  She went on to tell me that it turns out he is some sort of comedic sensation on the internet with a substantial fan base… and one of those fans happens to be another one of our coworkers.  Apparently this other coworker divulged to my friend that she had gone to see her favorite comedian do stand up, and they had gotten drinks afterwards then gone back to her place.  She was upset because she hadn’t heard from him in weeks and, to make matters worse, he made a YouTube video about how her cat watched them have sex.  My friend had figured out that it was the same person when the other coworker showed her one of his videos online.


We agreed to pretend that never happened and try harder to steer clear from comedians in the future.  They really are nothing but trouble.

The 1973 Cuddler

7 Nov

When you realize that someone dressed like a cast member from That 70s Show has followed you home from the bar, there are a variety of actions that can be taken.  Speaking from personal experience, my recommendation is as follows:

The second the flame of that candle you just lit reflects off of his groovy belt buckle, illuminating his lava lamp printed shirt tucked a little too far into a ladies bootcut jean– an escape plan must be set into motion.

Excuse yourself for a moment and hastily evaluate whether your acting skills are in tact enough to execute a believable onset of nausea and vomiting.  If not, receive an emergency email that a 6am meeting has been scheduled at work and if you oversleep you will surely be fired… so he really must leave at once!  Do not attempt both, or your credibility may be weakened.  And don’t try to take the easy way out– sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, eating a slice of cold pizza with your eyes closed, hoping he will simply disappear (I’ve tried it, it doesn’t work).

The polite thing to do is to take a raincheck and offer your number to Wavy Gravy on his way out the door.  But do not be alarmed when you wake up the next morning to several text messages expressing his disdain that the two of you didn’t get a chance to “cuddle” because you kicked him out after a hot five minutes of candlelit pizza eating and fake barfing.

Say Goodbye

1 Mar

The Email I Didn’t Send:

“I have to tell you that I was so happy to look at my phone this morning and not have a text from you canceling our plans tonight that I have been looking forward to for two weeks.  And… then I saw your email.

In case you were wondering how I feel about all of this which, I know, isn’t a factor:  I feel sad and stupid.  It seems silly to be so upset over losing someone I was only dating for about four months and only saw once a week (or less).  But I knew the first week I met you that you were unlike the other guys I had met online, or even since I’ve lived in New York for that matter.  I believed you when you said you really liked me and that you were only seeing me.  It took me several dates to be able to trust that you weren’t just someone who was going to tell me what I wanted to hear to get me to sleep with you, then bail a few weeks later.  But nevertheless, here we are.

You were worth it to me to be forgiving and supportive of your busy schedule, to take things very slowly and only see you when you could fit in a night here and there.  You were worth it to try and overlook the fact that it never quite seemed like you properly ended things with your ex.  You were worth it to take your ups and downs and intermittent communication in stride.  I felt good about myself because I had stepped outside my usual comfort zone of what I expect in the beginning of a new relationship and could be flexible to your needs.  The only problem was… I wasn’t worth it to you.

The socially acceptable thing for me to do in this situation would be to not respond to your email.  Act like I don’t care because you were just another guy I met online.  Quietly remove you from my Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr, and, without a word, slip back into the sea of people in this city who are inconsequential to your world.

But I think I deserve that you take a split second of time from your busy schedule to consider my feelings before you completely cast me aside.  Especially since you chose to break things off with me via a quick and easy 3:30am email– rather than showing at least some respect by talking to me face to face.”

The Email I Sent:

“Ok.  Good luck with your auditions!

Modern Romance

8 Feb

One of the best things about having this blog is that readers always want to share their  stories with me.  I love hearing about other people’s crazy dating experiences!  If you have a good one, please feel free to share.  Here are some particularly romantic ones that I’ve heard recently:

“A guy just messaged me on OKCupid asking me to visit him in prison.”

“A few weeks ago I had sex in the desert at five AM next to a giant cow carcass that still had some of its skin on it.”

“My first OKCupid blind date was with a girl who surprised me by taking me to an art class.  She painted a river of blood and confessed she had a fetish for men with protruding hip bones.”

“I dated a guy who slept naked on a yoga mat on the floor and the only time he left his mat was to bet a dollar on a horse.  We broke up because he told me that he didn’t feel like we were ‘marching towards marriage’.”

“The other night I went into the bedroom of the guy I’m dating and noticed that there was a turd on his desk chair.  But he ran over and grabbed it before I could say anything.”

“My first OKCupid date held his napkin to my face and asked me to tell him if it smelled like chloroform.  At the end of the night he kissed me teeth first.  It hurt.”

“I’m fairly certain the hot nineteen year old girl from OKCupid that I’ve been corresponding with for two months is actually my homosexual male upstairs neighbor.”

“Once I went on an OKCupid date with a man who revealed to me that he lived under a bush in Central Park.”

“While I was on tour I woke up next to what looked like an elderly man with tits and a bleached wig.  I think I need to delete my OKCupid because this is becoming a problem.”

I don’t know whether to feel jealous or lucky.

A Not-So-Blind Date

18 Jan

A question people often ask me after reading my blog is whether I’ve ever been on a blind date that was so terrible I couldn’t even sit through it.  The answer is yes… but to be fair, it wasn’t exactly blind.  If you are on a dating website long enough, you will inevitably come across a familiar face.  Unfortunately, it usually doesn’t wind up being the romantic, fateful encounter you initially may hope for.  Let’s start from the beginning…

Boston, MA.  2007.
I had just finished my first year of grad school and was sticking around Boston for the summer.  My parents had been urging me to get a job, but I was enjoying my free time, and what I guess you could call the Boston party scene.  There was one dance night I particularly enjoyed at a bar called Middlesex Lounge.  I began to notice a cute, shaggy-haired guy who was there every week… and one night we starting dancing together.  “Ray” was several years older than I and was a former model who now had a bit of a paunch.  He ended up coming back to my apartment with me, where I was subjected to the most violent make-out session of my existence.  However, that was where our relations ended.  The next morning I woke up with eye-liner smudged across my arm and rolled over to find Ray next to me–  his loose johnson liberated  from his open fly, resting peacefully on my mattress.  I tried not to laugh as I rolled out of bed and assessed the hangover at hand.  Ray’s phone rang and woke him up as I assembled some sort of strange outfit.  Back then I liked to wear metallic tube tops under velour hoodies and denim miniskirts like an alien porn star from the Eighties.  Or someone who lives in Los Angeles.  When Ray got off the phone he had an offer for me: the used car dealership (where he worked like four hours a week) had sold a car which had inaccurate mileage documented on its… documents.  Apparently, his boss needed him to drive this car around and up the mileage before the new owner claimed it the following morning.  “Wanna go on a road trip?” asked Ray, someone I had officially met ten hours earlier.  “Definitely!” I replied, forgetting my promise to my dad to apply for jobs that day.  Ray and I took the T from my apartment in Back Bay to the sketchy dealership in Somerville and climbed into a smelly sedan.  “This is really living” I thought to myself, right before Ray informed me that he had no money so I would be paying for gas.

First we stopped somewhere in the North Shore area and walked on the beach.  Then we drove around New Hampshire and up into Vermont.  It turned out his parents lived deep in the Vermont woods and he arranged for us to have dinner there that night.  Although Ray and his mother argued through the entire meal about what he was doing with his life, she was visibly impressed that he had brought home a girl who was bright and personable.  At one point Ray leaned in and whispered to me “My mom LOVES you.”  During dessert, his mother asked me “So how long have you two been together?” to which I didn’t miss a beat in responding “We just met last night.”  His mom nearly dropped her wine glass and choked on her sorbet.  While the family was cleaning up the kitchen, she pulled me into the other room.  “You are too smart for this.  You went on a road trip with someone you don’t even know?!  You could have been killed!  You’re lucky my son is a good boy.”  I nodded, promised I wouldn’t do it again, and thanked her for her hospitality.  Ray and I drove back to Boston, mostly in silence.  At one point, he pulled into a dark, empty parking lot and began a debate with me about why I wasn’t interested in dating him.  He invited me to stay at his place and was less than pleased when I asked that he just drop me off at home.

Ray and I hung out a couple more times after that… but he just never really did it for me.  We continued to run into each other several more times at bars around Cambridge (he always had a different Asian girlfriend with him) and we would ignore each other.  One time, after seeing him at Middlesex, he texted me the next day saying we couldn’t be friends anymore because his girlfriend was jealous and he wasn’t allowed to have female friends.  I had been over the whole situation for months and deleted him from my phone.  I heard from him again a year or so later when he instant messaged me out of the blue to tell me that he missed me and had been up all night staring at my Facebook pictures.  Uhhhhh….

Brooklyn, NY.  2011.
I logged onto OKCupid for one of the first times ever and clicked on something called a “Quiver Match.”  One of the three tiny faces that popped up had a familiar pout.  I clicked on the face and audibly gasped– it was Ray from Boston!  He had filled out his profile exactly as I remembered him speaking– vague, spacey, flowery sentences that were intended to sound deep– but actually sounded slightly insane.  He talked about how he used to be a model and in a rock band, but now he was starting a struggling PR company out of his tiny studio apartment in Queens.  I don’t know what came over me (maybe I was tickled to see a familiar face on there) but I messaged him “Hey, stranger.”  He immediately messaged me back and we decided to meet one evening at my roommate’s bar in Brooklyn Heights.  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but he turned out to be EXACTLY the same.  He still spoke like a valley girl from 1991, made pouty-lip faces between his sentences, and never ever made sense.  He still smelled slightly like armpits and more than slightly like stool and my disdain for him became more than I could bear when he began telling my roommate about our lengthy history together.  Honestly, I remember hanging out with him one-on-one in Boston a total of three or four times and I certainly never slept with him.  According to him we had been dating, which was news to me.  I called him out on his exaggerations, to which he responded “of course you wouldn’t remember, you were always drunk.”  That was the final straw.  Coming from someone who drank just as much as I did AND was a big stoner and cokehead on top of that, his accusation was absurd.  I used to drink more than I do now, but certainly wasn’t blacked out for half of our alleged “relationship.”  I had heard enough and knew I needed to get out of there.  I grabbed my purse and fled full speed out of the bar, leaving him to pick up the check.  A block or two into my escape my roommate texted me to say that Ray had followed me out and was trying to hunt me down.  I went from a steady jog to a full-blown run.  When I got to the A train, people on the platform were staring as I hid in a cranny, panting and paranoid.  The train came and I returned home safe and sound.

I haven’t heard from Ray since, but according to the internet he moved to Hollywood where he is still unemployed, but engaged to a Korean med student.  He has an entire public photo album on Facebook of various shots of her passed out in his car with her mouth open and cookie remnants all over her face.  Whoopsie.

I guess the message here is just because you find someone you know on a dating website, it doesn’t mean that you should go out with him– especially if he’s a total weirdo.  And his mother was right, you never know who is a murderer these days.  It reminds me of that commercial where some middle-aged actor is like “Wow, I took a lot of risks as a kid… like jumping off of this cliff into this canyon on my road bike.  But now that I’m older, I don’t take any risks with my cholesterol.”  In my ripe old age of 28, I can’t imagine spending all day and night in a car with a total stranger who wears tropical sunglasses and laid his naked, unwelcome wiener on my duvet.  I’m too old for that stuff.

The Polish Tickle

8 Jan

I have dated two Polish people during my time here on Earth.  The second of the two was my boyfriend of three years.  His favorite phrase, “Same shit, different day,” which he used every single day I was with him, pretty much summed up our entire relationship.  So let’s skip him, shall we, and recollect the brief couple months (prior to my three years with my ex) when I was dating his friend, “Stan.”

I met both of these Polish men at the store I worked at in Boston– Stan was the security guy.  He had a shaved head and wore gigantic shorts and man jewelry.  The first month I worked there, the other girls weren’t very friendly, so I mostly talked to Stan… and we began getting drinks after work.  He was one of the most absurd people I’ve ever met, albeit intermittently charming.  First of all, he had a thick Polish accent which made everything he said cute and/or hilarious.  He couldn’t pronounce the “th” sound so when he would say “third,” for example, it came out “turd.”  Whenever he referred to his manhood, he would call it his “turd leg” which I found endlessly funny.  He also followed every sentence with the word “yo” and would put words in the wrong order.  Once, he was mad he had to run to the bank in the rain and came back complaining “Great, now my hair chest is wet, yo.”

The second thing you need to know about Stan is how klutzy he was.  He loved skateboarding and had crutches or some sort of cast for the majority of the time we worked together.  This may have been less about being klutzy and more about being a major drinker.  I was going a little crazy myself around this time, running through the fountains in the Boston Common at 5am, you know– that kind of stuff.  Stan was into “tagging” and belonged to some sort of Polish street mafia where they would sneak out of his mom’s house late at night and paint a bunch of cryptic messages around town.  He also liked to draw stoned teddy bears and large-breasted women in bikinis, but let’s not go any further with that.

One thing I’ve learned about Polish men is that they love to talk about whether they are a “tits man” or an “ass man.”  A co-worker once asked Stan which he was, and he replied with a scoff “Ass don’t have neeples, yo!”  Stan was known at work for being rude to customers and inappropriate with the staff.  In addition to his “turd leg,” he loved talking to the girls about our various body parts and how he wanted to give us the “Polish Tickle.”  The manager eventually had a meeting with him about how they were cracking down on sexual harassment and that he needed to watch what he said.  Afterwards, he skulked back onto the floor, approached my friend and told her sullenly, “Well, I guess I’m not allowed to talk about your sweet badonkadonk anymore, yo.”

Our brief affair ended when all of the staff traveled to New York for a big company party at the Rainbow Room.  The night before our early flight, Stan had wanted to stay at my place so we could go to the airport together.  It was late, he was drunk, and I told him I just wanted to go to bed so we didn’t miss the flight in the morning.  He had other ideas, however, and when I turned him down (I was over him at this point) he made a rape joke.  I told him he either had to sleep on the floor or get out.  The next morning we got held up at security and almost missed our flight because he had fifteen lighters in his bag– which I had warned him about the night before.  I got on the plane and sat as far away from him as I could.  The party was the most insane thing I have ever attended in my life– never-ending open bar, celebrities, flame swallowers, nudity, snakes, etc.  Stan followed me around towards the end of the night, but I ignored him and met up with an ex-boyfriend instead (after losing my shoes and going to an after-party with a shirtless Tracy Morgan– my ex had to bring me slippers from Duane Reade so they wouldn’t kick me out for being barefoot).  I found out later that Stan had locked himself in the bathroom with another co-worker and was crying because I wanted nothing to do with him.

After that, he was almost unbearable to work with.  He was mean, spread rumors about me sleeping with other people at the store, and was eventually fired for being late too many times.  Since I clearly hadn’t learned my lesson about dating coworkers, I began seeing his friend the following year.  Today (nearly six years later), I will be the first to tell you that dating someone you see at work fifty hours a week is a BAD IDEA.

But thanks to Stan, I know how to say “cheers,” “teddy bear,” “I love you,” and “ass” in Polish.  Pretty much all you need to know.  In fact, I think you could make it through a week or more in Poland with solely that vocabulary under your belt.  I’ll be sure to add that onto my resumé under Special Skills.

Law & Order Lover

5 Jan

If you are an avid reader of my blog, you know that I’m a huge fan of Law and Order.  My family watched the shows together while I was growing up and my sister and I still watch reruns today.  I know every single case and have even been known to reference them in daily conversation.  So you can imagine my intrigue when I learned that one of my close girlfriends from graduate school was dating an actor from one of the Law and Order shows.

Back in 2008, I had just finished school and was still living in Boston.  My friend was already here in New York, working as a server at a restaurant in Midtown.  She had met the actor when he sat at one of her tables one night.  A few days later I was flooded with phone calls about how he had taken her out for amazing dinners, bought her fancy gifts, and sent her all sorts of sexy text messages.  Now, if you are picturing Christopher Meloni or Vincent D’Onofrio (whom I have a huge crush on– even in his grizzly years) you are regretfully mistaken.  The actor in question is a much older gentleman.  But it’s Law and Order so WHO CARES?

A few months later, I visited New York for Thanksgiving and stayed with my friend.  One night, her Law and Order lover (let’s call him Ron) invited us out for drinks.  We met him at an expensive restaurant on the Upper West Side, with an amazing wine list and a ceiling full of crystal chandeliers.  I was shocked, upon introductions, to find that the actor who played a noble character on the show cussed like a sailor in real life.  In fact, he was a veritable dirty old man– which I was delighted by.  He ordered one of everything from the appetizer list and selected a bottle of wine I would never have considered because of its price.  At one point, I got a text message from a guy I had started seeing back in Boston.  Ron took my phone away from me, saying “You better be F***ing this guy you keep texting while you’re out with me.”  He then laughed heartily and invited us over to his place.

Ron’s apartment was huge and beautifully decorated.  He had a spacious kitchen and a separate wine cellar, from which he selected a nice bottle of red wine for us to share.  We then settled into the gigantic living room, where scripts from upcoming Law and Order episodes were scattered around the floor.  I picked up one of them to read, when I began hearing squeals and grunts coming from the armchair to my left.  Somehow, in a matter of minutes, my two companions had stripped completely naked and were going at it like there was no tomorrow as I innocently perused call sheets.  My friend caught my stare and demanded that I join them in the bedroom.  When I said that I needed to leave, she stopped what she was doing and yelled “You had a threesome with your college friends, but you can’t have a threesome with me?!”  “Don’t be scared,” added Ron, “It’ll be something you can tell your grandkids about.”  Part of me acquiesced and I followed them to the bedroom, where I got a full-blown look at the johnson of an actor I had been watching on TV since I was a kid.  I decided my future grandchildren would not want to know anything about what was going on here.

I  told them I had to call the guy I was dating and closed myself in a bathroom down the hall.  This guy and I had been seeing each other for a bit, but never discussed the status of our relationship.  So I was surprised and relieved that when I called and told him the offer I had just received, his first response was “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” Well that takes care of that!  I walked back down the hall, satisfied that I now had a concrete excuse for Ron and also that my antics had prompted “The Talk” from the guy I liked.

“Excuse me,” I whispered as I re-entered the room to find my naked friend passed out atop Ron like an open-faced tuna melt.  I told him I was very sorry, and thank you so much for all the nice wine, but I had to go– my boyfriend wasn’t pleased that I was galavanting around town with a pair of naked people trying to get me to have a threesome with them.  He nodded and reached for his wallet on the bedside table.  Handing me sixty dollars, he instructed me to go down to the lobby and the doorman would get me a car to wherever I wanted to go.  I had made my escape!  Months later, I happened upon a new episode of Law and Order… the script for which I had seen on Ron’s rug.  I tried to watch it, but all I could picture was Ron’s old genitals waving around over a floral upholstered armchair.

And that, my friends, is the story of how I had a sexy encounter with a TV star which jump-started a three year relationship with my now ex-boyfriend.  It’s kind of too bad we’re no longer together, for no reason other than it actually WOULD have been a romantic story for the grandchildren… “Once, I almost had a threesome with a sixty-five year old actor, but your grandfather saved me!”