Well, I'd have to admit that I've participated in my share of sexual escapades. I'm definitely no angel. Over the years I've woken up on the West side, the East side, Brooklyn, Queens, Fire Island, the suburbs of Rochester and even random places in Europe (let's not go there). But I think a lot of the time I've been looking for something more than a one-night-stand. Sure, there are those times that you know what's about to happen isn't going anywhere. But, many times you can tell it is mutual and you don't feel guilty parting your ways in the morning (or before that if the apartment warrants an early escape). There are even those times when you're out with friends, pretty lit-up, or on holiday, and you feel like a little random rubbing. We've all been there.
But I can honestly say that a majority of the time I am hoping that this is going to be the one. Sounds pathetic right? I guess it is a bit. But I am serious! Is that asking too much? Is dating really that horrible? Am I really not the marrying kind? Not even the kind for a second date? Do people ever 'hit it off' anymore? In the past three months I've been down the same road over and over again. One night with someone special turns out to be just that, one night. Are we all so desperate to spread our seed around that we won't even consider something more? And just to note, all of these experiences are not the result of drunken nights in bars, so save that comment!
Now, I know it's not that easy. I've broken some hearts in my day too. But, I have a two date rule. I'm at least willing to give it a bit of a go. If still nothing jumps out at me after those two dates, it is usually safe to call it quits. I think it is a nice rule. How can you really tell after just one night? (of course there are exceptions, e.g. the person already has a picture of you in their apartment and you've never met)
I guess the worst part of all of it is that these experiences are rarely ever completely random or cold feeling at the time. Many times I can tell if someone isn't interested in anything more than sex. I can gauge those cold touches and that early morning scrambling. But those chronic cuddlers? (damn the cuddlers) Those ones who want to get breakfast? The ones who want to flirt in the morning and tell you their life story. The ones who want to tickle you? THOSE my friend, I do not get. What the f*ck is up with that seriously? I don't cuddle with my one-night-stands! It's poor practice.
Well, girl has had it. I may not be with best candidate to be someones boyfriend but I'm willing to give it a go, with the right person. Breeze buys need not apply, because I'm done. This milk is no longer free.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
I can't, i just can't
They say bad things happen in sets of three. After this past week I'm beginning to think maybe three in a row just isn't enough for those in charge of the Universe.
It all started when my friend's bike got jacked in Williamsburg while another friend was borrowing it. Now, I've seen the chains that he has on this thing and how he removes the seat when he locks it up, so I was pretty surprised to say the least. Less than two days later while on the hunt for the missing bike, said friend bought a shiny new bike, pretty sweet. Well, after a solid 24 hours worth of riding, that too went to way the of the former, jacked!
Stolen bikes aside but keeping with the bike theme, two of my friends were double riding on a bike from the bar on Saturday. Lord knows they had to share the bike because the other friend already has his bike stolen. It was quite late and they had stopped to get falafel and were headed home when they rolled too far into an intersection and were hit by a car! Hit and run no less! Luckily they were not hurt and the bike's basket only received minor damage. As an act of good faith, a cab-driver who witnessed the events chased down the driver of the other car and escorted him back to my friends who were assessing all that had happened. In response to being handed over the culprit, my friend Mark's main concern was the falafel he had yet to eat that now lay all over the street. They decided that a crisp $20 bill would suffice as payment and would keep them from calling the Police. But don't worry, Mark managed to swipe another $5 that fell out the man's wallet. He informed me that he "put his foot over the $5 bill" when he saw it drop and waited for the man to look away before picking it up. This was right before they scraped the falafel off the street and took it home and ate it!
Meanwhile, on the other side of town my other friend Justin is walking home from the same bar when he is accosted by three random guys who push him down and steal his wallet and house/car keys! Who the f**k steals someones keys? Were they planning on walking up and down the street trying to find his apartment by trying every door and then rob the place? Were they going to walk up and down the street until they found a Lincoln that lit up when they pressed the unlock button and steal it?
And on yet another side of town there is me. I have decided to avert disaster by TAKING a cab home, rather than become victim to the tragedy of the night. As a reoccurring problem, after a drink or two, I forget where I live. My roommates can attest to this as I always argue with cab drivers when they tell me there isn't any 720 Calyer Street. "Oh really, because that's where I live!" I always tell them. But actually, I don't live at 720 Calyer Street, in fact that isn't even the name of my street! This in mind, how I ended up four blocks from my house, but not on Calyer or my street is beyond me. So there I am, running like a tranny down a busy street at 4:00 AM trying to find my damn apartment.
I can't, I really, truly, just can't!
It all started when my friend's bike got jacked in Williamsburg while another friend was borrowing it. Now, I've seen the chains that he has on this thing and how he removes the seat when he locks it up, so I was pretty surprised to say the least. Less than two days later while on the hunt for the missing bike, said friend bought a shiny new bike, pretty sweet. Well, after a solid 24 hours worth of riding, that too went to way the of the former, jacked!
Stolen bikes aside but keeping with the bike theme, two of my friends were double riding on a bike from the bar on Saturday. Lord knows they had to share the bike because the other friend already has his bike stolen. It was quite late and they had stopped to get falafel and were headed home when they rolled too far into an intersection and were hit by a car! Hit and run no less! Luckily they were not hurt and the bike's basket only received minor damage. As an act of good faith, a cab-driver who witnessed the events chased down the driver of the other car and escorted him back to my friends who were assessing all that had happened. In response to being handed over the culprit, my friend Mark's main concern was the falafel he had yet to eat that now lay all over the street. They decided that a crisp $20 bill would suffice as payment and would keep them from calling the Police. But don't worry, Mark managed to swipe another $5 that fell out the man's wallet. He informed me that he "put his foot over the $5 bill" when he saw it drop and waited for the man to look away before picking it up. This was right before they scraped the falafel off the street and took it home and ate it!
Meanwhile, on the other side of town my other friend Justin is walking home from the same bar when he is accosted by three random guys who push him down and steal his wallet and house/car keys! Who the f**k steals someones keys? Were they planning on walking up and down the street trying to find his apartment by trying every door and then rob the place? Were they going to walk up and down the street until they found a Lincoln that lit up when they pressed the unlock button and steal it?
And on yet another side of town there is me. I have decided to avert disaster by TAKING a cab home, rather than become victim to the tragedy of the night. As a reoccurring problem, after a drink or two, I forget where I live. My roommates can attest to this as I always argue with cab drivers when they tell me there isn't any 720 Calyer Street. "Oh really, because that's where I live!" I always tell them. But actually, I don't live at 720 Calyer Street, in fact that isn't even the name of my street! This in mind, how I ended up four blocks from my house, but not on Calyer or my street is beyond me. So there I am, running like a tranny down a busy street at 4:00 AM trying to find my damn apartment.
I can't, I really, truly, just can't!
Saturday, April 26, 2008
ev heel hunt
Last week I went out with everyone from work to welcome a new hire. I definitely wasn't expecting to end up in the EV at a gay bar with about five of them. Nonetheless, there we were, guys and girls, straight and gay. It was a great time, and I was definitely out past my bedtime for a weekday.
One of my colleagues, a woman named 'Vanessa,' decided it wasn't necessary to keep up her stiletto look, seeing that she was a straight woman in a gay bar, and changed into her flip flops. Fairly appropriate look for the dive bar that we were at I would say.
The next morning at work, she came barreling in the office exclaiming that during this foot attire switch she somehow managed to lose sight of one of her black high heels. She had already scoured her building lobby, called the cab company to report the missing stiletto and called two local precincts to see if it had showed up! I was in stitches as she me told me of all the trouble she was going to in order to track down the missing heel. You can imagine how the conversation with the people on the other end of the line went: "I am calling to see if anyone has turned in one black high heel shoe." "No ma'am, sorry to hear about your loss, we'll keep an ear to the ground should anything show up." [snickering] I think the best was trying to imagine what the guy at the gay bar was going to say when she was planning to call "Yes ma'am, we have a pile of about fifty heels in the back room if you would like to come take a look."
With no luck after all of her efforts, I am now switching my thoughts to a twinky East Village boy, who stumbled across the size ten heel on the street and is now limping around trying to be the best tranny she can be.
One of my colleagues, a woman named 'Vanessa,' decided it wasn't necessary to keep up her stiletto look, seeing that she was a straight woman in a gay bar, and changed into her flip flops. Fairly appropriate look for the dive bar that we were at I would say.
The next morning at work, she came barreling in the office exclaiming that during this foot attire switch she somehow managed to lose sight of one of her black high heels. She had already scoured her building lobby, called the cab company to report the missing stiletto and called two local precincts to see if it had showed up! I was in stitches as she me told me of all the trouble she was going to in order to track down the missing heel. You can imagine how the conversation with the people on the other end of the line went: "I am calling to see if anyone has turned in one black high heel shoe." "No ma'am, sorry to hear about your loss, we'll keep an ear to the ground should anything show up." [snickering] I think the best was trying to imagine what the guy at the gay bar was going to say when she was planning to call "Yes ma'am, we have a pile of about fifty heels in the back room if you would like to come take a look."
With no luck after all of her efforts, I am now switching my thoughts to a twinky East Village boy, who stumbled across the size ten heel on the street and is now limping around trying to be the best tranny she can be.
Monday, April 7, 2008
tranny ferocia
Spring is here and the weather is really starting to turn around. It's my favorite season and I really do get excited about budding trees, flowers popping up and sleeping with my window open at night.
A couple friends and I decided to take advantage of this great weather this past weekend. Saturday was sunny and beautiful so we headed into the city to do the walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. It really couldn't have been a nicer day for it, blue skies, sun at your back and a warm breeze.
After we crossed over the bridge and got into Brooklyn, we had a little lunch and decided to plant ourselves on a bench by the docks to people watch for a couple of hours. What a cast of characters.
Apparently half of New York was getting married on Saturday and all of the wedding parties wanted to take their pictures down by the water. There were some interesting brides and wedding parties, including my favorite, Karmen. Karmen was this four foot ten bleach blonde Hispanic woman in a bright purple dress and silver heels. She was walking around like it was her first time in a pair of pumps and she was ferociously out of control. She rallied up her party and commanded control at every second. Whether it was setting up the best poses along the rail or fixing the brides dress, she had it covered. She also had the picture taking covered, with her camera phone and corresponding disposable camera. She really had us cracking up. I didn't want to see her trot out of my life, but the El Camino was fueled up and ready to go and off they went!
Between her and the"pimps and hoes" convention that was taking place to the right of us, it felt like we were at the circus. So thanks Karmen, for being the hot mess that you are.
A couple friends and I decided to take advantage of this great weather this past weekend. Saturday was sunny and beautiful so we headed into the city to do the walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. It really couldn't have been a nicer day for it, blue skies, sun at your back and a warm breeze.
After we crossed over the bridge and got into Brooklyn, we had a little lunch and decided to plant ourselves on a bench by the docks to people watch for a couple of hours. What a cast of characters.
Apparently half of New York was getting married on Saturday and all of the wedding parties wanted to take their pictures down by the water. There were some interesting brides and wedding parties, including my favorite, Karmen. Karmen was this four foot ten bleach blonde Hispanic woman in a bright purple dress and silver heels. She was walking around like it was her first time in a pair of pumps and she was ferociously out of control. She rallied up her party and commanded control at every second. Whether it was setting up the best poses along the rail or fixing the brides dress, she had it covered. She also had the picture taking covered, with her camera phone and corresponding disposable camera. She really had us cracking up. I didn't want to see her trot out of my life, but the El Camino was fueled up and ready to go and off they went!
Between her and the"pimps and hoes" convention that was taking place to the right of us, it felt like we were at the circus. So thanks Karmen, for being the hot mess that you are.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
signs of ghetto
This weekend I was out with a couple friends at a bar in my neighborhood when I had a realization. I am extremely ghetto.
I sat with my friend "Simon" and poured the vodka from my pocket flask into my club soda and started to think about many things in my life that are equally as ghetto.
I looked up from my bartending only to see that there was a male go-go dancer preparing for a night of "doing his thing" on the old wooden bar. There he was, stretching out his arms and legs on the DJ booth. In between stretches, some friends helped him to draw a tattoo of an anchor (apparently he was going with a sailor theme on this particular night) on his bicep.
At the end of night, my friends and I were waiting to hail a cab when we came across five young males also looking to do the same. As we watched them split up their group because the cabby wouldn't allow five people, we all began commenting on what dumbasses they were for not doing the "5th person hide behind the car and dive in unnoticed" maneuver that we are all too familiar with.
Piggy backing on this theme, the other day I was running late for work (okay, everyday), when I passed the usual entourage of homeless men huddled near the entrance of the subway, where one of them was peeing on the steps of the bank. How lovely I thought, as I rushed down the stairs to catch the train. After realizing that my metro card was expired (what great timing!) I attempted to buy a new monthly pass. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the machines were not excepting credit or debit cards. Just great I thought, I usually only have about $1 in cash on me at any given time. To my surprise I actually found a $20 dollar bill in my wallet, not sure where that came from? With another twist of luck the subway attendant even had change to offer me so I wouldn't receive $18 in Susan B. Anthony coins to toss in my bag.
After this debacle was over, I run down another flight of stairs to find a train approaching and what looks to be about twenty minutes worth of angry commuters ready to aggressively pile on. As I am left standing on the platform, unable to weasel my way aboard, some bitch who got on looks at me with her most insincere puppy dog eyes and says "sorry." At this point I take a step back and think Oh, now I'm getting on this train, and then proceed to jump towards the open doors and crowd surf my way onto the packed car. I am pretty sure that I spent the entire trip without my feet touching the floor and my head in the crotch of the old polish woman who works at the corner deli. Joy. She looked and smelled of cured meats. Who needs perfume when you are basting in pastrami all day?
At work, I polish off my daily peanut butter sandwich, peruse the halls for leftover meeting food and make my third cup of work coffee. At the end of the day I head home and hit up the local grocery story which sells milk that expires in four days, sour yogurt and no longer carries my Skippy natural peanut butter (Bastards!). As I lug my groceries home to my five roommates, I have to quickly stop at the ATM to withdrawal several hundreds of dollars to pay rent, as it needs to be paid in cash. Safety comes to mind as I step over the sleeping homeless people inside the bank, kudos to you Bank of America for maintaining such high standards! I get home, pop in some microwave vegetables, tally up the rent and head up to my shoe box sized bedroom.
There, I put away the iron, which has now completely separated into 2 pieces after being dropped so many times, pull the towel off my bed where I had done the ironing, and gently re-fold the clothes from the previous day. The pits didn't smell like sweat after all, so I can definitely get another wear out of them! I gently fall asleep to the sound of water bong hits and Nintendo Wii.
Ghet-to. What has this city done to me?
I sat with my friend "Simon" and poured the vodka from my pocket flask into my club soda and started to think about many things in my life that are equally as ghetto.
I looked up from my bartending only to see that there was a male go-go dancer preparing for a night of "doing his thing" on the old wooden bar. There he was, stretching out his arms and legs on the DJ booth. In between stretches, some friends helped him to draw a tattoo of an anchor (apparently he was going with a sailor theme on this particular night) on his bicep.
At the end of night, my friends and I were waiting to hail a cab when we came across five young males also looking to do the same. As we watched them split up their group because the cabby wouldn't allow five people, we all began commenting on what dumbasses they were for not doing the "5th person hide behind the car and dive in unnoticed" maneuver that we are all too familiar with.
Piggy backing on this theme, the other day I was running late for work (okay, everyday), when I passed the usual entourage of homeless men huddled near the entrance of the subway, where one of them was peeing on the steps of the bank. How lovely I thought, as I rushed down the stairs to catch the train. After realizing that my metro card was expired (what great timing!) I attempted to buy a new monthly pass. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the machines were not excepting credit or debit cards. Just great I thought, I usually only have about $1 in cash on me at any given time. To my surprise I actually found a $20 dollar bill in my wallet, not sure where that came from? With another twist of luck the subway attendant even had change to offer me so I wouldn't receive $18 in Susan B. Anthony coins to toss in my bag.
After this debacle was over, I run down another flight of stairs to find a train approaching and what looks to be about twenty minutes worth of angry commuters ready to aggressively pile on. As I am left standing on the platform, unable to weasel my way aboard, some bitch who got on looks at me with her most insincere puppy dog eyes and says "sorry." At this point I take a step back and think Oh, now I'm getting on this train, and then proceed to jump towards the open doors and crowd surf my way onto the packed car. I am pretty sure that I spent the entire trip without my feet touching the floor and my head in the crotch of the old polish woman who works at the corner deli. Joy. She looked and smelled of cured meats. Who needs perfume when you are basting in pastrami all day?
At work, I polish off my daily peanut butter sandwich, peruse the halls for leftover meeting food and make my third cup of work coffee. At the end of the day I head home and hit up the local grocery story which sells milk that expires in four days, sour yogurt and no longer carries my Skippy natural peanut butter (Bastards!). As I lug my groceries home to my five roommates, I have to quickly stop at the ATM to withdrawal several hundreds of dollars to pay rent, as it needs to be paid in cash. Safety comes to mind as I step over the sleeping homeless people inside the bank, kudos to you Bank of America for maintaining such high standards! I get home, pop in some microwave vegetables, tally up the rent and head up to my shoe box sized bedroom.
There, I put away the iron, which has now completely separated into 2 pieces after being dropped so many times, pull the towel off my bed where I had done the ironing, and gently re-fold the clothes from the previous day. The pits didn't smell like sweat after all, so I can definitely get another wear out of them! I gently fall asleep to the sound of water bong hits and Nintendo Wii.
Ghet-to. What has this city done to me?
Sunday, February 10, 2008
a time for thanks
Thanksgiving for my family isn't what it used to be. Ever since my sister moved to Long Island and started her own family we no longer have a big family to-do upstate. Beginning with the first time my Mom left me home alone and went to Long Island when I was high school, it has been a tradition for me to be at random places on this turkey loving holiday. While usually at a friend or roommates house for the meal, this year I found myself with friends eating weiner schnitzel at a dive restaurant in Vienna. This aside, I am reminded of Thanksgiving 2006, when I spent the day at my friend "Jerri's" parents' house, in Hilton, NY.
I had been to Jerri's parents' house several times and was quite comfortable around many of his relatives, including his older brothers, his younger sister and his fun-loving parents! They all knew me as the guy who "drop kicked" their son and brother out of the closet at age 23 and always inquired as to what was new with me. Sunday dinners in Hilton were always a great time, but none that could match up to this Thanksgiving feast.
We decide before we go, that the holiday would be best spent completely wasted, so we pick up a few bottles of wine, hop in Jerri's bright red Pontiac Sunfire, light up some cigarettes and set the navigation system for "Destination Hilton." Jerri whipped the Pontiac into drive, and we were headed down "The 490" towards his parents' house and arrive in no time. While being whisked down the country-side and through the blip that is downtown Hilton, Jerri tells me that "Hilton is right out of a Hallmark card," his famous phrase that he reiterates every time we drive through. In case you have never been, let me tell you it's actually more like a ghost town, with the 4 corners anchored by a Hess gas station. Let him think what he wants is the mentality I've adopted at this point.
After about 3/4 of a bottle of wine, I start to loosen up around some of his more "traditionalist" family members who are in town visiting for the holiday, including his annoying "Uncle Albert" who spends half of the day picking apart Jerri. I am thinking to myself, doesn't he know that's MY JOB?!? What the hell? Somewhere in between Jerri's aunt discovering myspace, his Grandmother sucking down shrimp and dropping the tails in my lap and his geriatric dog "Mozart" sauntering up and down the stairs in search for his youth, I look down and I'm about two bottles of cabernet in. I immediately think to myself, this has already beat ANY holiday in Long Island.
Soon after I find myself at the dinner table awaiting the meal, with the bottle of cab at my side. I get up quickly to use the facilities only to come back to "Grandma" plopping herself into my already warmed up seat. My initial thought is "Oh hell no bitch" but in light of the holiday, and the fact that she is about 103, I decide to let her have this one. Pick your battles Sam, pick your battles. I am a guest after all, and I was raised better than that. [thanks Mom] As I reach over her walker and oxygen tank for my wine, Grandma chimes in "Oh, you can leave the wine." Before I can think it through I've already blerted out "Oh, I don't think so Grandma!" and I practically choke slam the bitch to get to the wine. No worries, Grandma suffered only minor injuries and I was re-united with the bottle of fermented grapes. Apparently Grandma had severely under-estimated my love for antioxidants.
Post dinner, tryptophan and red wine grogginess set in and we are all lounging around the sectional in the main living room. Jerri is receiving a head rub from his oldest [and gay] brother "Derrick" when his Mother asks him to run downstairs and get something out of the fridge, possibly an ice pack for Grandma. [kidding] At this point I take it upon myself to shimmy my way down the couch and place my head in Derrick's lap, for "my turn." Jerri comes meandering up the stairs, finds my head in his brother's crotch and immediately says "Oh, it's time to go!"
Before I knew it I was tossed into the front seat of the Sunfire with the last drips of what is probably bottle number three of red wine and some left over stuffing. Jerri's shock and awe starts to subside and we begin reminiscing about what a douche his uncle is, the look on Grandma's face when I snatched the wine from her grizzled claw, and how I am never again to be within 15 feet of his brother Derrick.
Oh, the holidays.
I had been to Jerri's parents' house several times and was quite comfortable around many of his relatives, including his older brothers, his younger sister and his fun-loving parents! They all knew me as the guy who "drop kicked" their son and brother out of the closet at age 23 and always inquired as to what was new with me. Sunday dinners in Hilton were always a great time, but none that could match up to this Thanksgiving feast.
We decide before we go, that the holiday would be best spent completely wasted, so we pick up a few bottles of wine, hop in Jerri's bright red Pontiac Sunfire, light up some cigarettes and set the navigation system for "Destination Hilton." Jerri whipped the Pontiac into drive, and we were headed down "The 490" towards his parents' house and arrive in no time. While being whisked down the country-side and through the blip that is downtown Hilton, Jerri tells me that "Hilton is right out of a Hallmark card," his famous phrase that he reiterates every time we drive through. In case you have never been, let me tell you it's actually more like a ghost town, with the 4 corners anchored by a Hess gas station. Let him think what he wants is the mentality I've adopted at this point.
After about 3/4 of a bottle of wine, I start to loosen up around some of his more "traditionalist" family members who are in town visiting for the holiday, including his annoying "Uncle Albert" who spends half of the day picking apart Jerri. I am thinking to myself, doesn't he know that's MY JOB?!? What the hell? Somewhere in between Jerri's aunt discovering myspace, his Grandmother sucking down shrimp and dropping the tails in my lap and his geriatric dog "Mozart" sauntering up and down the stairs in search for his youth, I look down and I'm about two bottles of cabernet in. I immediately think to myself, this has already beat ANY holiday in Long Island.
Soon after I find myself at the dinner table awaiting the meal, with the bottle of cab at my side. I get up quickly to use the facilities only to come back to "Grandma" plopping herself into my already warmed up seat. My initial thought is "Oh hell no bitch" but in light of the holiday, and the fact that she is about 103, I decide to let her have this one. Pick your battles Sam, pick your battles. I am a guest after all, and I was raised better than that. [thanks Mom] As I reach over her walker and oxygen tank for my wine, Grandma chimes in "Oh, you can leave the wine." Before I can think it through I've already blerted out "Oh, I don't think so Grandma!" and I practically choke slam the bitch to get to the wine. No worries, Grandma suffered only minor injuries and I was re-united with the bottle of fermented grapes. Apparently Grandma had severely under-estimated my love for antioxidants.
Post dinner, tryptophan and red wine grogginess set in and we are all lounging around the sectional in the main living room. Jerri is receiving a head rub from his oldest [and gay] brother "Derrick" when his Mother asks him to run downstairs and get something out of the fridge, possibly an ice pack for Grandma. [kidding] At this point I take it upon myself to shimmy my way down the couch and place my head in Derrick's lap, for "my turn." Jerri comes meandering up the stairs, finds my head in his brother's crotch and immediately says "Oh, it's time to go!"
Before I knew it I was tossed into the front seat of the Sunfire with the last drips of what is probably bottle number three of red wine and some left over stuffing. Jerri's shock and awe starts to subside and we begin reminiscing about what a douche his uncle is, the look on Grandma's face when I snatched the wine from her grizzled claw, and how I am never again to be within 15 feet of his brother Derrick.
Oh, the holidays.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
why i am over dating
So, I decided to start a blog based on feedback given from a friend about a recent email that I wrote, originally just to my normal friend email chain that goes on everyday at work, that I ended up sending around to half of the people I know. When I started thinking about it, I realized it could be rather therapeutic and that my Mom often sends around funny anecdotal emails, so perhaps she has passed on the craft to me? We shall see what the first round of feedback is like and take it from there.
I know many people oftentimes think and say "this would only happen to me" but when it comes to dating I have been through quite a roller coaster over the past 18 months and I feel like I can confidentially say this after my last experience.
This week, I had a "date" that was absolutely unreal, and not in a good way.
This boy, who shall remain nameless, turned out to be a complete and utter gong show. What I have done in my past to be hand delivered such experiences in my life I do not know, though I guess I can think of a few things in my high school years that might warrant such punishment.
So here is how this night went:
Boy cancels dinner plans that were made during the day, after I accommodate by ditching my volunteer plans, that have already suffered several rain checks (note to self: this could be another one of the reasons for future punishment). I am disappointed at the cancellation (via text message I might add) but decide to take the opportunity to catch up on my domestic "to do's" which lately had been taking a back seat due to a extremely busy work schedule.
Boy calls a couple hours later to see if I wanted to "hang out" later on, which means him coming over to watch a movie. It sounded like a good idea at the time, so I graciously accept the invitation to hang out as I was looking forward to it after having what had appeared to be a pretty decent first date.
This is where things start to spiral.
Boy shows up at 10:30 p.m. (mind you I have to be at work in midtown by 8:30 a.m. and I live in Brooklyn) via bicycle with a 45 minute to-do list of tasks on my computer and an appetite for Kashi cereal, green tea, weed, a back rub, a movie, a cigarette, a hookup, and a bed that is available to sleep in until noon the next day, and in that order.
Topics of the nights discussions: Whether or not he can ethically round his 3.621 GPA to 3.7, how great swimming is (and better than my sport of running), how a cup of green tea a day will make you live 8 years longer (not sure where that cigarette and weed fits into this equation), how I need to move my plant closer to the window because it needs more sun light, how he wants children, but actually wants to carry them in his "detachable womb" which we should someday have if we can have prosthetic arms that function, and how he isn't looking for a "relationship" and sometimes is "into me" and sometimes "isn't", so maybe we could just be friends with benefits. I know what you're thinking, how chivalrous, right?
Other highlights of the night include me having to get out of bed to ask my roommates for a cigarette for him to smoke with his morning coffee, him getting out of bed to run downstairs to ask my roommates for a bowl to smoke his weed out of, being told that "you aren't very good at this" while giving him a requested back rub, and then given step-by-step instructions on how to do so.
The icing on the cake for me was, not only did he not wake up in the morning when I went to work (5 1/2 hours after we finally got to sleep) but I was alerted by my roommates the next day that he didn't leave until after 12 noon, and also not before making himself coffee, going through my roommates bedrooms looking for a bike bump and completely running down the battery on my laptop.
No "thanks" or "had fun" note, text or email. It's been about a week, and I haven't heard a word, you can imagine how devastated I am.
I swear, only in New York, and only to me. If this is karma, somebody is really pissed at me.
I am over dating. Sign me up to become a priest.
I know many people oftentimes think and say "this would only happen to me" but when it comes to dating I have been through quite a roller coaster over the past 18 months and I feel like I can confidentially say this after my last experience.
This week, I had a "date" that was absolutely unreal, and not in a good way.
This boy, who shall remain nameless, turned out to be a complete and utter gong show. What I have done in my past to be hand delivered such experiences in my life I do not know, though I guess I can think of a few things in my high school years that might warrant such punishment.
So here is how this night went:
Boy cancels dinner plans that were made during the day, after I accommodate by ditching my volunteer plans, that have already suffered several rain checks (note to self: this could be another one of the reasons for future punishment). I am disappointed at the cancellation (via text message I might add) but decide to take the opportunity to catch up on my domestic "to do's" which lately had been taking a back seat due to a extremely busy work schedule.
Boy calls a couple hours later to see if I wanted to "hang out" later on, which means him coming over to watch a movie. It sounded like a good idea at the time, so I graciously accept the invitation to hang out as I was looking forward to it after having what had appeared to be a pretty decent first date.
This is where things start to spiral.
Boy shows up at 10:30 p.m. (mind you I have to be at work in midtown by 8:30 a.m. and I live in Brooklyn) via bicycle with a 45 minute to-do list of tasks on my computer and an appetite for Kashi cereal, green tea, weed, a back rub, a movie, a cigarette, a hookup, and a bed that is available to sleep in until noon the next day, and in that order.
Topics of the nights discussions: Whether or not he can ethically round his 3.621 GPA to 3.7, how great swimming is (and better than my sport of running), how a cup of green tea a day will make you live 8 years longer (not sure where that cigarette and weed fits into this equation), how I need to move my plant closer to the window because it needs more sun light, how he wants children, but actually wants to carry them in his "detachable womb" which we should someday have if we can have prosthetic arms that function, and how he isn't looking for a "relationship" and sometimes is "into me" and sometimes "isn't", so maybe we could just be friends with benefits. I know what you're thinking, how chivalrous, right?
Other highlights of the night include me having to get out of bed to ask my roommates for a cigarette for him to smoke with his morning coffee, him getting out of bed to run downstairs to ask my roommates for a bowl to smoke his weed out of, being told that "you aren't very good at this" while giving him a requested back rub, and then given step-by-step instructions on how to do so.
The icing on the cake for me was, not only did he not wake up in the morning when I went to work (5 1/2 hours after we finally got to sleep) but I was alerted by my roommates the next day that he didn't leave until after 12 noon, and also not before making himself coffee, going through my roommates bedrooms looking for a bike bump and completely running down the battery on my laptop.
No "thanks" or "had fun" note, text or email. It's been about a week, and I haven't heard a word, you can imagine how devastated I am.
I swear, only in New York, and only to me. If this is karma, somebody is really pissed at me.
I am over dating. Sign me up to become a priest.
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