Tag Archives: Williamsburg

My Month on Tinder

13 May

I finally gave in and tried Tinder for a month last fall.  The first thing I noticed was the incredible amount of insane names on there.  In one sitting alone, I came across a Festus, Yalph, Kamal, Marian, Hewlett, Boswell, Beathan, Riker, and Dumpit.  As much as men named after a prison, a printer, and a female librarian get me going… sadly, none of them appealed to me.  When I did eventually agree to meet someone, I was forced to cancel at the last minute because I was sick.  He said he didn’t mind rescheduling and then immediately sent a second text that read “But I’ve heard that sexting cures the common cold… my ex-girlfriend and I used to do it all the time ;)”  Noooooooo no no no!  Asking me to sext when I’ve never even met you AND hitting me with the ex-girlfriend double-whammy?  Amateur hour.

Without further ado, here are a few brief diary entries on my Tinder dates which, I hate to admit, almost made me miss OKCupid:

1.  The Silent Sound Engineer— Almost canceled on him after he left me not one, but TWO seven-second voicemails of himself heavily breathing.  Ended up meeting him at one of my favorite local bars.  Really cute face, but really shiny bald head– I could see the reflection of the Halloween decorations hanging over us in that head of his.  The date was short-lived after he told me he doesn’t drink because his parents used to force-feed him whiskey as a four year old and he has never gotten over it.  He offered to give me a ride home on his motorcycle and, although I only lived two blocks away, I let him cycle me around my neighborhood for awhile before retiring for the evening.  He was nice but too quiet and serious, so I didn’t respond to his request for a second date.

2.  My Manager’s Sister’s Ex-Boyfriend’s Brother—  Tinder tells you if you have any mutual Facebook friends, so I agreed to meet this man after I noticed that he was friends with my manager.  After a late arrival, he immediately remarked that he was surprised by how tall I am and expected someone shorter based on my pictures.  I asked him if he had even read my profile because I put my height on it, to which he responded by saying he was actually pleasantly surprised and found me very attractive.  He was bald and named after a fish, but his Caribbean accent was pleasing to the ear, so I stuck around for a few drinks before concocting an escape plan.  The next day at work I received a very X-rated text from him and that was the end of that.

3.  The Spanish Executive— I felt bad for making him come to my neighborhood in Brooklyn because he lived on the Upper West Side.  When he arrived, he appeared much older than I had thought and had airplane breath.  Told me right off the bat that he has two ex-wives and a ten-year-old son whom he travels to London to see every other month.  I blurted out “I’m almost thirty and always thought I would have at least one ex-husband by now!” before realizing that probably isn’t a helpful thing to say on a blind date.  He got really excited that I have pretty good Spanish vocabulary and, for the next two weeks after the date, texted me solamente en Español.  The texts started to get a little too racy when he invited me to some upscale French restaurant conveniently located next door to his apartment.  As much as I wanted a free Spanish tutor, the thought of watching someone’s dad slurp mollusks made me very uneasy.

4.  The Nerdy Accountant— This guy actually used to work in accounting for the same company I do (not in accounting) and had been my partner during a store inventory in Boston six years ago.  I couldn’t really remember his face and his Tinder picture looked like his head was floating in an amniotic sac… but I remembered him being funny during that fateful night so many years ago.  I imagined the great story we would have about how we met if it ended up working out.  It did not.  I met him at an over-priced German beer bar full of fools in Williamsburg.  He didn’t offer to pay for any of my drinks even though he had picked the place and even brought up how much more money he made than I.  He seemed a little uptight, smelled like he hadn’t washed his clothes in awhile, and also made a high-pitched whistling sound from his nostrils like an alarming tea kettle.  After he tried to talk to me about money-management and baseball (two things I know nothing about), I countered him with talk of lutes and red herrings and the date ended shortly thereafter.

5.  The Concert-Booking Ticket Guy—  We had a shared interest of one of my favorite bands, so I messaged him lamenting the fact that I had failed to get tickets for their upcoming show before it sold out.  He responded by telling me that he was going out of town that weekend and wanted to give me his tickets for free because I “seem like a good person.”  I never ended up meeting him, but stalked him on Facebook and found out that he is going through a divorce.  The show was awesome and the fact that a stranger would do something so nice for me renewed my faith in Tinder… for a few days.

6.  The Midwestern Architect—  I don’t remember anything about this date other than the fact that he was wearing one of those mock-turtleneck sweaters from LL Bean and he smelled like Miracle Whip.

7.  The Chubby Roadie—  Agreed to meet him because he had one picture of himself wearing a diaper and another of him cradling a koala atop his protruding belly, next to a sweaty goth in Australia.  On the date, he blatantly tried to get me drunk and threw back more shots in the span of an hour than I thought was humanly possible.  I quickly escaped after he made a couple homophobic remarks.  He continued to text me, but luckily got shipped off to Singapore to tune someone’s guitar a few days later so I was able to ease out of that one.

8.  The Creepy Face Paint Man— This guy was allegedly a Buddhist.  He also had very little body hair and would’ve made a great clown.  His profile picture was of him in full face paint and a top hat beaming like a maniac.  I don’t recall much of what we talked about, but he wore a wrist brace and spoke to me in a whisper.  To this day he still sends me Facebook messages once a month inviting me over for “chicken finger night” at his apartment with all of his friends.  That invitation sounds more dangerous than running in front of a speeding bus.  After one particular invite he even followed up with “You missed another fun, tasty evening!”  

In closing, what I learned from my month on Tinder is this:  The rumors are true… PEOPLE GO ON TINDER TO FIND PEOPLE TO HAVE A ONE NIGHT STAND WITH.  Sorry guys, not my thing.



11 Apr

Yesterday, while enjoying some lime yogurt on my lunch break, I received a notification that an intriguing beast had rated me highly on OKCupid.  He was 6’4″ (my favorite height) with long, wild hair, and in his profile picture he was seductively sprawled on a cement slab.  He was also in a band and looked like a 1970s hippie mixed with the Geico caveman.  I needed him in my life.  I sent a brief message (I only message first when I’m really impressed) inquiring as to what kind of music he plays and where he tends bar.  

After work, I met my friend for drinks at Passenger Bar in Williamsburg.  You may know him as Grandma’s Bisexual Spice Rack or The Night Raven.  He was running late, so I ordered a drink while I waited.  The bartender was a gargantuan man with a flowing head of hair, and it instantly struck me how much he looked like the caveman I had messaged earlier on OKCupid.  There’s no way it’s him that would be too much of a coincidence, I thought to myself… but the guy HAD mentioned that he worked at a bar in Brooklyn.  Anyway, The Night Raven arrived with keychain gifts from California and Iceland (he is the the number one contributor to my keychain collection).  We caught each other up with what has been going on in our lives and he told me that he shared my blog with his new girlfriend.  "Did she enjoy the posts about you?” I asked him.  "Yes, and her response was ‘you DO smell like a spice rack!'”

While we were talking, I got a message from the OKCupid Caveman that said “Are you sitting at the bar at Passenger Bar right now?”  I knew it!  I looked up to find the bartender chatting with some girls at the other end of the bar… Hmmm.  "Are you a psychic?” I wrote back, wondering if he wasn’t saying anything because I was there with The Night Raven.  But then I saw them.  Not one, but TWO additional tall, shaggy-haired neanderthals were setting up band equipment at the front of the bar.  These guys seriously looked like they could be triplets with the bartender and I had to blink a few times to make sure the whiskey wasn’t causing me to see things.  But which caveman was The Caveman?  My phone dinged with a new OKCupid message: "I hope you enjoy the music I’m about to play.”  It wasn’t the bartender, it was the guitarist!  I felt like I was in a game of Clue, but with fewer lethal weapons and much more hair.

I attempted to enthrall The Night Raven with this tale of mixup and mayhem, but he had come from another bar and was a tad intoxicated.  He announced his departure, but not before giving me a reassuring hug and handing the bartender a folded up twenty dollar bill.  "Whatever she wants” he commanded, disappearing into the night to return to his nest.

Between sets, The Caveman found me and introduced himself.  He was wearing a beige velour shirt and I contemplated proposing marriage to him.  We had a hearty laugh about what a small world it is and he said he wanted to buy me a drink after his next set.  By the time he was done playing, however, I was tired and didn’t want to drink anymore.  We exchanged numbers and planned to get together another time.  When I got off the train in my neighborhood, The Caveman had texted me “You’re a babe.”


Open Mike Night

5 Mar

This past Saturday night was my first Open Mike Night.  Upon hearing that phrase, you are likely picturing amateur musicians, comedians, or poets trying their best to win over an audience with new material.  Nah, I’m talking about a night where I go on blind dates with a bunch of people named Mike.

I was feeling a little blue after “Fred” ended things via email last week, so I figured it was as good a time as any to get back on the horse.  After a forlorn Friday evening spent wallowing in self-pity and chardonnay, I accidentally gave my number to four different people named Mike.  This made for a confusing tomorrow when, in the cold morning light, I received multiple text messages that said “Hey!  It’s Mike from OkCupid.”  I had also made plans with two of the Mikes for that very night.  I have to admit I was a little nervous to take on TWO blind dates my first night back after being on leave of absence since November– What if I had lost my touch?  What if they could tell I wasn’t at 100%?  What if I cried into a cheeseburger again like I may or may not have done the night before?   There was only one way to find out… “Yes Mike, I’ll see you tonight!”  I agreed to meet Mike #1 at 8:30 and Mike #2 at 11.  That way, there was a little bit of room between my Mike appointments in case a Mike bailed or another Mike rang.

I met Mike #1 at a bar in Williamsburg.  He was a couple minutes late, and I was almost finished with my first beer when he arrived.  “Mind if we move down so we aren’t directly under the speaker?” he asked, “Ok.  Now we can begin the date.”  Oh boy.  I tried to give Mike #1 a subtle once-over as he began his introduction: “I’m Mike… I’m from Twarf, Indiana, population 200… I’m unemployed…”  He had on a red and white checkered button-up shirt under one of those striped mock turtleneck sweaters that the neck zips up or down depending on whether or not you’re a Midwestern dad.  I also noted that he had about 3,600 less hairs on his head than he did in his profile picture.  They stuck straight up in the air, evenly dispersed– like a smattering of redwood trees, not dense enough to hide the forest floor from the passengers in airplanes above.

He had been going on about getting laid off from a social media company, but his former job description brought my attention back from his follicles to his face.  Apparently, he had been one of the people in charge of screening 50 Cent’s emails.  Somebody decided that there were “too many chiefs and not enough indians” so he was let go and had been milling about within the same four-block radius in Williamsburg ever since.  He asked where I live and when I told him Clinton Hill he said “Never heard of it.”  This concerned me, as he had apparently been living in Brooklyn for seven years.  I asked him what he thought of OKCupid and he said he didn’t like the process of having to message girls, but knew he had to do it if he wanted to find a girlfriend.  I looked away to take an uncomfortable sip of my beer because I was starting to feel bad for this guy.  Not only was he without a job and girlfriend, he seemed to be totally devoid of any long term goals or zest for life.  When I asked him what else he would be interested in pursuing aside from reading rappers emails, he said he has always wanted to try his hand at comedy.  Oh dear, here we go I thought– if I had a dollar for every time an OKCupid date has told me they want to get into comedy, I would have at least forty-eight dollars.

I finished my second (third?) beer and we both agreed that we were tired and should probably head home.  He stood to fish around in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and (I hate myself for admitting this) I nabbed the opportunity to sneak a quick peak at the crotch of his khakis.  Sigh.  Flat as a pancake.  Outside we hugged goodbye and I tried my best to sound sincere when I exclaimed “We should do this again sometime!” before heading towards another bar on Roebling to meet Mike #2.

Mike #2 was waiting for me at the bar when I arrived and it didn’t take long for me to glean that he was the complete opposite of #1– outgoing, employed, full head of hair.  In fact, he had some of the strangest hair I’ve ever experienced on a blind date.  It was just your standard straight man hair… but for one peculiar tightly wound curl, about the size of a cat turd, bisecting the center of his forehead like a pendulum.  I was confused and alarmed by this deliberately dangling curl (and kind of wanted to gather some photo documentation) but I tried not to let my eyes wander upward from his as we talked.  He worked for a gourmet coffee purveyor, where he spent several hours a day perfecting latte art.  His other job was at The Upright Citizens Brigade.  “Have you heard of it?” he asked casually as I suppressed my primal urge to shriek, run out into the street like a madwoman, and hijack the first truck out of this crazy comedy-loving city.  Not only does every man on OKCupid in New York seem to have some affiliation with UCB, but Fred (my plan-canceling, “it’s-not-you-it’s-me,” “your cat peed on my boots” former lover) was a UCB guy.

Mike #2 changed the subject, informing me that he had just moved to New York a few months prior, and had previously lived in Kansas City and San Francisco.  He also revealed that he had just gotten out of a relationship… which I know by now not to touch with a ten-foot pole.  He leaned in closer and I deduced that the occasional waft of Chilean sea bass I had been catching since I sat down was potentially coming from somewhere on his person.  It was getting late and I had work in the morning, so I turned down Mike #2’s offer to explore the intimate loft over the bar, paid, and hopped in a cab.  En route, I checked my phone to find that a third Mike had attempted to get ahold of me an hour earlier.  When I got home I followed up with the Mikes with one mass text:  “Thanks for a lovely evening tonight, Mike.”

All in all, my first Open Mike Night was a promising start.  I doubt I’ll go out with either of them again, but I am considering making Open Mike Night a weekly occurrence.

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.

Soup Can Man

13 Nov

A little while ago I went on a second date with a guy named “Brad.”  Brad referred to himself as a “rising star of Manhattan real estate” and also fancied himself a singer of songs.  One of his profile pictures was a headshot (which if you’ve ever read my blog you know I always steer clear from), but I remembered him having a nice head of hair… so I agreed to go out with him a second time.

When I got to the bar, Brad texted me that he was biking from Manhattan to Williamsburg and running late.  Twenty minutes later he burst through the door, bellowing “You lookin’ for me?” at me from thirteen feet away.  He smelled as if he had just emptied an entire can of Axe Body Spray all over himself to cover up any biking-related odors.  I tried not to sneeze/vomit from the overwhelming fumes and surveyed the rest of Brad’s person.  He took off his coat and replaced it with a crumpled pinstripe blazer from inside his backpack.  As he stuffed himself into the jacket, I noticed something distressing hanging from his neck– not one, but TWO necklaces.  I was instantly reminded of the traumatic day that I made out with a Canadian wearing a leather choker several months prior.  Brad had on some sort of dark gothic cross necklace and a long red string with a large geode tied to the bottom of it.  The rock was bigger than a golf ball and I wondered how he biked around the city with that giant thing jangling against his chest.

Brad was cute, but naughty.  He was loud, southern, and made a lot of strange faces and poses.  At one point, I paused to send a quick email to myself (some notes on Brad for later reference) and when I looked up, he was standing and staring with pouty lips, leaned against the bar with his arm behind his back and hip jutted out– almost in a full side bend.  Brad was one of those people who flirt by teasing, and throughout the evening he made fun of my hair, my outfit, words I used, etc.  However, he didn’t know what he was getting himself into because I am the queen of comebacks.   He tried to assert himself by pointing out my insecurities… but I wasn’t the one fidgeting with straw paper and making nervous creations out of napkins.  By the end of the evening he was drunkenly slurring “Why don’t you wanna be my friend?… Why don’t you like me?… Why did you scream when I tried to kiss you?”

We hopped around to a few different spots, then Brad announced he was hungry.  He had the attention span of a baby wildebeest and I felt like we changed locales every fifteen minutes.  After having a light meal at some Japanese place in Williamsburg (where Brad was titillated when an old Asian lady told him he “look like the Brad Pitt!”) we ended up at The Levee.  Naturally, Brad felt this was a good time to bring up religion and was flabbergasted when I told him that I don’t associate myself with one.  He said “Surely your parents were raised religious!  Your grandparents?!”  He finally calmed down after I told him I think my dad’s sister is Lutheran… “Oh thank god” he sighed, “I’m Lutheran, too.”  He complained that every other girl he had gone out with on OKCupid lied about their weight and ended up being twenty pounds heavier than they were in their profile pictures.  He described various escape plans he was forced to carry out after being seized by these larger ladies.  He told me I looked exactly like his ex-girlfriend, which was creepy, but apparently his first compliment of the evening.  It pains me to admit it but I think we made out at the Levee.  I hate it when people make out in bars.

I went back to his place with him because it was close to the bar and I wanted to call a car service to take me home.  He had just moved into a four bedroom apartment with three other girls whom he didn’t know.  The living room was bland and small, but the real shock was his room.  I have never in my life seen a bedroom so messy.  Clothes and garbage were strewn all over– empty vodka bottles on the desk, plates and cups on the floor, and discarded soup cans with moldy soup remnants on his bare mattress.  I couldn’t decide if I was more surprised that this was the bedroom of Manhattan’s “rising star of real estate,” or by  the fact that he apparently ate soup straight from the can.

I wouldn’t say we “hooked up” per say… it was more like nudging a salted slug with a stick.  He tried to get me to spend the night but I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could.  On my way out, I thought it would be funny to sprinkle the free condoms we had gotten from the bar on the couch in the living room (Brad was in his room and missed this mischievous moment).  I then left the apartment, silently giggling to myself and simultaneously knocking a large wooden parrot off the wall in the hallway as I closed the door.  I tried to re-hang the bird to no avail and ran out of the building before my antics were discovered.  The next day I got this text from him:  “So what’s this I hear about condoms on my couch?”  Apparently his roommates were not amused when they discovered my condom deposit, and had left him a series of passive aggressive post-it notes about respect.  Oops.

Despite my prank, Brad invited me to watch a movie with him a few nights later.  “Where?”  I asked, “In your trash heap– I mean bedroom?”  He wrote back “You got me all wrong, baby.”  Ok, so despite his disgusting bedroom and caustic personality, Brad was mildly amusing for some reason…  But how do you tell someone you can’t hang out with them again because the smell of their body spray makes you physically ill?

I’m a Creep

30 Sep

I have a secret.  Don’t tell anyone.

Remember when Missed Connections first became popular?  Pretty much every girl I know trolled Craigslist (at least once), hoping to find that some eloquent mystery man had made her the subject of her own romantic comedy.  To my knowledge I still have yet to be the subject of someone’s Missed Connection… but I wrote one this week.

The other night I attended an improv show with a friend from college.  We then went to a bar in Williamsburg where we had a long, self-indulgent conversation about what’s wrong with our lives.  After really letting loose with an assortment of personal confessions, we somehow shifted onto the topic of absentee voting.  It was then that an extremely attractive man interjected– “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I just overheard your conversation…”  Oh god.  I hadn’t even noticed that anybody was sitting behind us, let alone Mister September from the Brooklyn Eligible Bachelor Calendar.  I thought back over all of the embarrassing things I had just drunkenly said to my friend that he may have heard.  He cleared up our confusion concerning voting absentee and told us that he had just written an article on voting laws for a popular blog.  I was impressed– you may have gathered by now that I have a weakness for writers and musicians.  His friend was much more stand-offish, seemingly hesitant to be engaging in conversation with us.  They moved to sit next to us at the bar and we talked about writing and rapping (the other guy turned out to be a rapper in a well-known rap group).  My friend and I ordered our next round.  The cute guy told his friend they should stay for another, but the grouchy rapper said no.  They left and I realized we hadn’t gotten their names.

When I got home, it took me all of five minutes to figure out his name thanks to my cyber-stalking skills (honed during a summer 2007 telemarketing job where I got paid to uncover the personal info of top company CEOs in Boston).   I couldn’t bring myself to contact him directly, however… that would be TOO creepy.  So I settled for a Missed Connection, floating in the vast sea of Craigslist posts like a vacant lily pad waiting for a sexy frog occupant.

Here’s my post:

To the handsome stranger in the thermal at Basik:  Tell me more about WordPress and voter’s rights.  Why did you let your friend talk you out of having that last drink?

But seriously, a writer and a babe?  I long for another fleeting conversation, perhaps even a sweet caress and/or blog collaboration.  Just kidding.  Kinda.

The Underling

24 Sep

Aside from my high school boyfriend, there was another fashionable male I had a run-in with during Fashion Week.  A guy named “Luke” had asked me out about a month earlier.  He texted me on the day we arranged to meet saying that he had to cancel because he had a migraine.  We rescheduled a week later, at which point he canceled again– this time because he was trying to launch a blog in time for Fashion Week.  Just as I was beginning to wonder what he was hiding underneath his chinos, he commented on our shared interest in an old punk band from my youth.  Apparently it was one of his favorites and he had a band-related tattoo on his calf.  OK fine.

The night we met, he wanted to go to a hipster-y bar around the North Williamsburg area.  I changed venues to The Turkey’s Nest to test him out.  For those unfamiliar with The Nest, it is a favorite amongst Williamsburg old-timers, who try in vain to ignore the invasion of hipsters that trickle in as the night progresses.  If you go to The Turkey’s Nest on the right night at the right time, there are sleazy country songs playing on the jukebox and patrons are naked in the bathroom or sleeping on the bar.  All the bartenders are friendly and beers are served in giant styrofoam to-go cups.  I arrived first and parked myself at the bar between a Tim McGraw fan with a “RIP” tattoo, and an older man who was asleep sitting up.  I purchased a large styrofoam cup of beer, reapplied my lipstick and waited for my date to arrive.  When he did, I have to admit he exceeded my expectations.  He was cute, tall, and more masculine than I had anticipated.  His luxurious loafers, necklace, and perfectly folded pocket-bandana threw me for a loop, but I tried to look past his obvious affinity for accessorizing.  After playing a couple rounds of pool, we went to another nearby bar where we sat and chatted about blogs.  He was excited to launch his street fashion blog– it was all he could talk about.  I told him where I work and his eyes lit up.  I also broke one of my rules and told him about my blog.  Aside from his obvious love of fashion, he seemed pretty normal so I decided I wasn’t going to write about him.  He had never heard of people blogging about online dating before and was intrigued by the idea.  All of a sudden, as if out of nowhere, a pot of fruity lip gloss appeared.  And we aren’t talking a stick or even a tube.  A pot.  The kind that one must apply to their lips via fingertip.  It smelled like Hawaiian Punch and I was instantly jolted from my quasi-drunken euphoria back into sober skepticism.  For whatever reason, he decided to fondle my cell phone, and when I picked it up, it was covered in greasy fingerprints from his lip gloss!  Oh god, I spoke too soon I thought to myself– Instantly regretting divulging details of my blog to him.  En route to the train, he said “Well, I hate awkward goodbyes so…” then proceeded to pin me against a building and lay a kiss on me.  I counted to five in my head and pulled away, my lips coated in a fruity gloss that I (a female, mind you) would never wear.  We walked to the train and said our goodbyes.

Several days later I received a text from Luke asking if I was working at my store for Fashion Night Out (a party leading into Fashion Week where stores have drinks and giveaways, etc).  I hesitantly told him yes, to which he responded that he was going to bring his “blog team” by to “snap” some pictures.  What had I gotten myself into.  The night of Fashion Night Out, I wasn’t really looking forward to this individual I had met once (and accidentally made out with) coming to my place of employment with his “blog team,” but I forgot about it at some point during my ten hour work day.  I was working the door when Luke arrived.  His “blog team” consisted of himself, a mousy girl and an equally petite dude with a camera.  Luke’s outfit left me speechless for nearly a full minute.  He was wearing salmon-colored pants that were cuffed at the ankle to reveal just the right amount of skin, the same luxurious loafers as before (I’m not kidding I think they were velvet), a blazer over a black shirt, and a necklace.  It was in the 80s and close to 100% humidity that night, and I was stunned by his foppish attire.  But what made me want to board the next plane out of the country was the reincarnation of his perfectly folded bandana from a few nights earlier.  In his breast-pocket, a black and white polkadot silk scarf was situated into a little blob, like a scoop of whipped cream atop the fruitiest of sundaes.  His sidekick asked if they could take a picture of Luke and I, to which I politely declined– offering up the humidity as an excuse.  I could hear my coworkers snickering behind me as the blog team departed.

A few days later, Luke texted me to let me know that his blog had launched and he would love for me to check it out.  He also asked if he could take me out for drinks again (“before I forget what you look like!”)  I checked out his blog when I got home from work that day and found a post he had written about his Fashion Night Out excursions.  The tone of his blog is very snarky and wanna-be pretentious.  In the “About Us” section, Luke wrote that women swoon in his presence… but to catch his attention they should buy him a drink “without making eye contact” and then HE will approach them “if satisfied.”  The girl wrote that she gives men orgasms just by stepping on their toes with her designer heels.  Ugh.  In Luke’s post, he compliments my company for throwing a good Fashion Night Out party… but refers to me as a company “underling” while referencing the staff.  I had to glance through the post a second time to make sure I read it right.

For future reference: If I tell you I’m not going to write a blog post about you and then you insult me in your blog… all bets are off, buddy.  The bets were already close to being off when you smothered me with tropical lip gloss, but I was trying to be civil.  Either you are a moron and used a word you didn’t understand, or you are an asshole.  He texted me a day or two later, wondering when I was free to go out with him and also about the runway shows I attended.  I didn’t respond.  He texted me again a few days after that asking if I was watching the football game that was on.  This time I responded: “Yep, the Bears are certainly the underlings in this game.”  I don’t think he got it because he wrote back “It’s def a turn-on when girls talk sports.”  I wanted to write back “are you sure it’s not the men in tight pants?” but I didn’t.

Now I know I have written a multitude of unflattering things about men on the internet.  The fact that he called me an “underling” doesn’t really bother me… But the fact that he said that and then continued to try to go out with me is what blows my mind.

I wish him the best of luck with his blog… but maybe he should spend a little less time in the closet.  Literally, that is.

Juicy Buns

4 Jul

I only went on one date last week because I was in hibernation mode.  We were meeting at some intellectual beer purveyor in Williamsburg that I walked past three times before finding it.  Why do guys always take me to beer snob locales?  I drink Miller High Life and PBR– I don’t know what a Withering Gosling IPA is.  The guy was tall, dark, and Alaskan.  He had really tiny, sharp teeth that looked like they could easily catch a trout straight from the stream.  Actually, they looked as if they could gnaw through my bike lock I’ve been having trouble opening…

We chatted outside, drinking beer I’d never heard of and, despite a ring of surrounding smokers, I could smell his clothing from across the table.  I know this may sound crazy, but if your favorite t-shirt has been sitting in your drawer for many moons, you should probably give it a wash before wearing it on a date.  I’ve never been known to dislike a hint of male body odor, but musty clothing is a turn-off.

We were only at the bar for one beer’s time before he suggested we go share some Chinese food.  He told me he was craving juicy pork buns.  Excuse me?  Yes, I had heard him correctly.  We got to the restaurant and he announced that he had recently become an uncle to a baby named Arrow, or Farrow, or Weasel, or something.  His family was really close, but he had moved to New York to write songs about the environment.  I think one of his songs was called “Ozone Calling”… or was it “Who’ll Stop the Aerosol?”  He bit into one of his pork buns and the juice squirted violently across the table, coming to rest on my arm.  I don’t blame the bun, because that’s probably how I would feel if I was getting punctured by those teeth (and “bun” is one of my all-time favorite words).  He insisted I try one, which also ejected it’s juices to and fro.

Covered in pork juice and Eau de Garage Sale, he gave me an Alaskan hug goodbye and I promptly returned home to my slumbers.  I don’t remember anything else about this guy because his pork buns were so memorable.  Now I know the worst food ever to order on a date.

Grandma’s Bisexual Spice Rack

25 Jun

Last Wednesday night (aka day three of my OKCupid marathon) was a repeat.  I rarely go on second dates unless I actually like the person… which, unfortunately, doesn’t happen very often.

I had to go out with this guy (“Cody”) again because I couldn’t remember anything about him other than the fact that I had been intrigued by his bizarreness.  I usually take notes after all my blind dates (sometimes during, like in the case with Dennis the night before) and the only thing I had written down under Cody’s name was “Grandma’s bisexual spice rack.”  I knew he was bisexual and I remembered him smelling like a plethora of dried herbs… but I couldn’t remember anything else.  He had left the country a few days after we first met and it had been over a month since then.  Of course I asked him to bring me back a keychain, but my expectations were low.

We met at a bar in South Williamsburg, and as soon as I walked in, the bartender leapt out from behind the bar to give me a hug.  I hadn’t realized it, but this was the bar that my buddy who used to bartend across the street from my job had moved to.  I sat down next to Cody, who had also acquainted himself with the bartender.  I recognized right away that Cody was wearing the same shirt as last time- with an anatomical sketch of a ribcage covering the front.  He was cute, albeit a bit awkward in his body.  He kind of reminded me of a bald eagle who has seen too much.  He did have a nice head of hair, though.

I also remembered that he drank like a pro.  I think he had about six glasses of straight gin while I was there… and he had been at the bar drinking two hours beforehand.  I took it easy because I worked the next day, and because even I can’t drink like that.  We chatted for a couple hours, he showed me his new tattoo, and reminded me of the story of his worst blind date.  He had told me this story last time, but clearly I had been catatonic and didn’t remember anything.  Apparently, he went on a blind date with a cute girl from OKCupid and the first thing she brought up was her cat and how she suspected he had an undescended testicle.  (The cat, not Cody.)  She went on to tell him that she had to start sleeping on her stomach, because the cat wouldn’t stop humping her chest.  She said it had been getting better, however, since she bought him a stuffed monkey to hump instead.  Now, if your cat’s genitals aren’t a prime first date topic, I don’t know what is.  I have never seen a cat hump anything, but I did have a large Jewish Canadian attempt to ride my leg like a dollar store donkey the night before.

Around this part of the evening, he reached into his man-purse and bestowed upon me the KEYCHAIN JACKPOT.  I never knew airport souvenirs could excite me so much.  He had gone above and beyond the assignment and brought me back a keychain from Quebec, Munich, and Cologne.  He apologized that he had forgotten to get me one from London.

After that, it became more and more apparent just how intoxicated Cody was.  I offered to walk him home and told him I would meet him outside in one minute- I wanted to say goodnight to the bartender.  When I got outside, he was nowhere to be found.  I walked the perimeter of the block, but he had disappeared into the night.  I even tried calling him (I hate talking on the phone) to no avail.  He texted me the next day, apologizing for his weak liver and thanking me for a lovely evening.  It had been a lovely evening.  Contrary to what my blog may convey, it doesn’t take much to please me.  A good bar, some laughs, cat testicles, and a treasure trove of keychains usually does the trick.


Tiny Tim

15 May

From the beginning, I was skeptical of “Tim’s” interest in the female sex.  He was a vegan who wore women’s skinny jeans and fashion scarves.  He was also quite petite– two of him could most likely fit in one of me.  And he did cleanses.  As my friend Stacy would say: “End of discussion!”  He displayed his abundant collection of designer jeans on hooks in his room like works of art.  His bedroom had no windows, so it was like being in a dark, depressing chamber of denim.  He was one of those guys who grew up in a loving upper middle-class family in the Midwest, yet loved to wallow in a self-generated pit of despair.  As “complicated” as he was, I have to give Tim credit for being a real pro at funny one-liners…which get me every time.

I met Tim through mutual friends, shortly after moving to New York.  A group of us went to an art exhibition at someone’s loft in Bushwick.  I had barely known Tim an hour before he was comparing his genitalia to the noses of various muppets.  He didn’t want to wait in line to use the bathroom behind a pack of drunk hipsters, so he peed outside in the street– and received a public urination ticket.  I was amused by this sardonic little man, but had a boyfriend at that point…and assumed Tim was most likely gay.

A couple months (and a break up) later, I ran into Tim at a bar where my friend was dj-ing.  We spoke briefly and then, to my surprise, he volunteered to accompany me to my next destination– a party at the Standard Hotel.  The next thing I know, we are drinking expensive champagne and he is holding my hand and kissing me all over the bar.  The next morning I awoke to find myself alone (and fully-clothed) in a strange bed, surrounded by jeans and guitars.  On my way out of the apartment, someone’s blurry body waved to me from the couch as I cringed and pretended not to speak English.

Tim and I hung out about once every few weeks.  He was in a band with my friend, so I ran into him frequently at bars around Williamsburg and Greenpoint.  He continued to pee in inappropriate places such as bathroom sinks, a bucket in a supply closet, as well as my friend’s kitty litter.  He was very stand-offish around me and barely made eye contact– until he was drunk.  Then he would go straight for the hand holding, we would make out for awhile and then take the bus (of all things) back to his apartment.  I never take the bus.  They seem very unreliable and you never know WHERE they’re going to go.  At least subway trains have to stay on their tracks.  Busses have the capability to take off into the distance and it could be days before they are found.

I never understood why Tim always wanted me to come back to his place with him because whenever things started to go beyond making out, he would abruptly curl up into a tight fetal position and go to sleep.  I’m no psychiatrist, but I would venture to take that as a red flag.  The last time we ever hung out, I went back to his apartment as usual.  He was petsitting for a friend and left to take the dog for a walk.  It seemed like he had been gone forever and I was bored… so I found some disposable razors in the bathroom and decided to seize the opportunity to do some light shaving in the sink.  Hey, why not?  Shaving can be a time-consuming activity and, at this moment, my schedule was wide open.  In my state, I guess I didn’t adequately rinse all the hairs down the drain.  Tim returned and came out from washing his hands wondering where the hair in his sink came from.  I said I had no idea and that they were probably his roommate’s beard hairs.  He responded that both of his roommates were girls.  Oh.  I didn’t think of that.

A few fetal positions later, he woke up the next morning concerned that he had left his favorite fashion scarf at the bar.  I woke up the next morning and texted my friend Rachael “Last night a dude called me out on shaving in his sink…told him it was someone’s beard.  All time low?”  She texted back: “Stop trying to be me.”