The Bushwick Bushwhacker

I met “Casey” last year while attending a birthday celebration in Brooklyn.  We struck up a conversation and discovered that we had both attended college in the same small town in Missouri.  My friends were leaving so I gave him my number and he kissed me goodbye in front of his colleague.

The following week we met for drinks in Williamsburg.  He was cuter and funnier than I remembered and it turned out he was a writer of humorous articles for various websites.  I admitted to him that I used to blog about blind dating (I hadn’t in months at that point) and he shared how he had gotten into trouble for something similar in the past– writing an article incorporating a graph which showed the correlation between female pubic hair length and higher levels of education.  According to Casey, women who dropped out or never went to college are typically completely waxed, while women with an Ivy League education tend to sport a full fur pelt.

I knew it wasn’t an entirely prudent decision to go to his place on the first date, but he assured me it wouldn’t be a one-night stand… which seemed convincing enough at the time.  He lived alone in an incredibly nice apartment, and I couldn’t believe that a writer could afford a place like that.  I also couldn’t believe what swayed before my eyes like a great willow when he vacated his corduroys:  the longest, straightest 70s fringe I’d ever seen below the belt.  I remember remarking “I thought you said you went to the University of Missouri?” but the rest of the night is all a blur.

After that night, I attempted to make plans with Casey several more times to no avail.  His efforts went towards a series of post-1 a.m. booty calls.  After one of his late-night invites, I tried to text my friend “he’s attempting to lure me into another session with his lengthy pubic bangs.”  Unfortunately, I opened the wrong chat and sent that message to Casey instead.  When I realized what I had done, I figured there was no way around it and added “so…uh, what are you doing Saturday?”  He responded with “trimming my bangs.”  Ok, so he ended up using me for a one-night stand.  I wasn’t too bent out of shape about it since his pubic bangs were forever immortalized in an artistic bar napkin rendering hanging on the wall at a certain dive in the West Village.

Fast forward to three or four months later when I got a text from Casey out of the blue asking me out for drinks.  I was curious about his sudden renewed interest, so I agreed.  We met at the same bar as last time where he explained that he had been dating a girl from OKCupid.  She was a former Miss New York in a Miss USA pageant whom, he discovered on their first date, had lost her pageant body and grown a small beard.  They dated for three months but he eventually broke things off when intimacy became too difficult on account of her beard mixed with his already weakened sex drive due to Propecia.  I asked him what he had actually liked about this girl and he said that she had a good job.  A true New York romance.

Casey seemed aloof and depressed this time around and I didn’t feel like we had much chemistry.  I figured he was using me for a rebound from Miss Beard USA, but still went home with him because I didn’t really care at that point.  He gave me a hard cider and turned on the classic rock station.  We then retired to his lofted bedroom where– this is the only way I know how to describe it– I got scrolled on like an iPod Classic.  Afterwards, in a state of shock, I awkwardly commented on the sprinkler system not five feet above his bed, to which he made some half-assed joke about it being there in case sex got too hot (not possible).  I grabbed my cider to cope, somehow spilling it all over myself and his sheets.  He mumbled “you can stay here if you want” then rolled over and began to snore.  I had to get the hell out of there, and fast!  I threw on my dress and descended the steps to discover that his dog had chewed through my shoelaces and was now focusing on a frenzied game of tug of war with the bottom of my dress.  It was cold out and I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, so I grabbed one of Casey’s hoodies, yanked my dress from his dog’s teeth, and limped outside so as not to lose a shoe– thankfully procuring a cab.

The next day I felt a momentary pang of remorse, so I sent Casey a text saying “sorry I spilled cider all over my naked body on your bed.”  He responded “it’s ok, I got most of it out.”  Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.  It’s not like I want to go run a marathon across eleven bridges or explore the ancient Mayan ruins… but a little zest for life once in awhile might be nice!  Casey asked if I wanted to come over to his place and “drop off his sweatshirt” a few nights later and I told him I could Fedex it.  It might be a clue that you need to work on your game if a girl is offering to use her Fedex account at work to return your clothes.

Best Blind Date Ever?

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.

A Rebounder Gets Rebounded

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.

Red Flags

As I previously discussed in my Thanks for the Franks post, there are three categories of guys on OKCupid… and I can usually figure out which category someone is within the first five minutes of meeting them.  To refresh your memory:

Category 1– The totally un-dateable weirdos and psychos lurking the streets of New York.  This type is often initially disguised by quasi-impressive jobs and a smooth line or two.

Category 2– The men who only use OKCupid to find people to have sex with.  Self-explanatory.

Category 3– The seemingly normal guys who I meet and am momentarily wowed by the fact that maybe, just maybe, OKCupid actually connected me with someone that I might like… until they tell me they just got out of a serious relationship and are  looking for a rebound to get over their ex-girlfriend.

A few nights ago I went on a date with a guy named “Dylan.”  Although I had immediately (and correctly) pegged him as a Category 3, in hindsight he was definitely creeping into the Category 1 column.  Throughout the date, more and more red flags waved in my face until I was sorry I hadn’t just called it an early night.  But based on his text message after I canceled on him the first time we were supposed to meet, I was afraid of what his response would be if I did it again.  He had written: “That’s too bad.  If you are actually serious about wanting to meet me, set a date.”  It sounded like he was taking my cancelation personally, but I told myself you can’t read too much into a text message.  When we did meet, I joked that I hoped he wasn’t mad about my previous cancelation and he told me that he HAD in fact been mad.

Red Flag #1:  Random angry outbursts.  In addition to his odd text, he made several negative exclamations throughout our date.  The first was his hatred of rich people.  He kept mentioning his poor upbringing and how he was conditioned to despise people with money.  He also made a few comments directed toward women that were laced with enough bitterness to make me uncomfortable.  He referred to his ex-girlfriend as a “bitch” which instantly made me lose any interest in him I may have had.  Name-calling is not cute and it told me that in addition to being bitter and immature, he was clearly not over his ex.  Danger.  Walk away now.

Dylan had gotten to the bar early and was halfway through his beer when I arrived.  I waited for him to make a move to order me a drink, but he just stood there blankly staring at me.  He was pretty quiet from the start, but unleashed the dragon as the beer and Fernet began to flow.  After telling me that he had recently thrown out his shoulder at a German Glitter Party (whatever the hell that is), he shared that he had just joined OKCupid and I was his first blind date.

Red Flag #2:  Just got out of a five year relationship a couple months ago.  This fun fact was revealed about twenty minutes into our date.  I figured it out after he told me he was new to OKCupid and had just moved in with new roommates (tell-tale signs).  Any time he brought up his ex-girlfriend (which happened several times) he began chugging his beer like there was no tomorrow.

Dylan didn’t even try to hide his disinterest in my job, but we found we were both passionate about writing.  Unfortunately it’s hard for me to talk to OKCupid dates with whom I have writing in common, because the main thing I write is this blog.  So when Dylan asked what I like to write, I had to give him a vague “personal non-fiction” response.  He said “Oh god, are you a BLOGGER?” then went on to tell me that he went to college for writing and had just recently gotten a new job as a ghostwriter for some company executive.  He didn’t like the job because he could only write in her voice.  I asked him what he would rather be writing and he said that he wasn’t sure because he didn’t know what his own voice was.  He wanted to start a blog and a Twitter account, but said he was afraid to write anything down because what if it didn’t sound as good as when he had first thought of it?  Or, what if it wasn’t as good as something he had written before?

Red Flag #3:  Projecting insecurities.  It seemed like he had a lot of self-doubt about his writing, so I tried to tell him that he should just write it all down anyway and he would eventually find his voice.  He told me I didn’t understand because writing is “just a hobby” for me.  Then he asked why, if I had majored in theatre, was I not doing theatre?  I told him because I decided that I didn’t want to make a career out of it.  “But why not?  Why go to school for it if you aren’t even going to try?”  At this point, I felt like he was trying to shift the focus off of his own personal failures and onto what he perceived mine to be.  Settle down.

After another beer, Dylan started getting weirdly introspective– smiling to himself and giggling as if only he was in on the inside joke… with himself.  He told me that it’s hard for others to understand him because he’s so weird and complicated.  And he had apparently been worried about meeting me that night because he knew he would be an asshole and I wouldn’t understand.  The more he talked about how weird and funny he is, the more I was convinced that he was just your garden variety disaster zone.

Red Flag #4:  If a girl tells you she’s crazy, it very well may be true and you’ve been warned.  If a guy tells you he’s “so complicated and hard to understand,” either he is a hot mess, he’s a Coheed and Cambria fan, or he’s gay.

The cherry on top of this charming date was when, at the end, I told him I hoped he had a good time on his first OKCupid date.  He winced and said he didn’t like calling it a date.  I said he would probably need to get comfortable with that term if he stays on OKCupid because that’s what most people call it.  Although we weren’t “dating” (and never would be, thank you dear lord) it is technically a “blind date,” and we had set a “date” to “meet.”  It was at that moment that I realized I am one of those ridiculous people who sometimes use air quotes in conversation and I really don’t know how I feel about that.

As we walked outside to where Dylan’s bike was chained, he put on his helmet and tightened the strap so tight his jowls looked like a muffin and I was afraid he was going to asphyxiate.  He rode off into the night and I breathed a sigh of relief.  That was exhausting!

I hate to be one of those girls that say this, but at least he ended up paying.  I will sit idly by as someone I don’t know works through their quarter life crisis… but only if I am provided with some nice potable incentives.

I’m a Creep

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.