The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not

Ok Cupid finally came through with a very entertaining, yet mildly age inappropriate dating situation.

Back tracking - a few weeks ago a wise talking (email= talking) 29 year old peeked my interest with his witty and biting e-banter. Of course our 4:30am drunken IM exchange was a hoot (I still cannot for the life of me remember what I was typing or HOW) which lead to The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not asking me out on a real live date.

The days between the asking and the going were filled with one of my favorite activities, internet snooping, compiling of facktoids and fashioning a fully rounded persona, chock full of assumptions and creative conjecture. I quickly discovered that I may be socializing with the new millennium’s Talented Mr. Ripley (the Believe it or Not part just kinda rolls off the tongue after one says The Talented Mr. Ripley… or maybe that’s just me). Anyways the guy is the type who may or may not write grad students’ doctorial dissertations for cash, and/ or use his wits not always for good but most certainly for gain. The more I read the more I liked. My date was showing signs of brilliance and craftiness combined with a very low moral set…… yummmmmm.

The locale for our rendezvous was ladies choice but he picked the time 9:30pm (oh these kids and their late nights out) and the borough, Queens. What the what? NOBODY who lives in Manhattan chooses to go to Queens unless there is a baseball or racquet involved, but I was happy considering that this old lady would not have to drag her ass across the river in the middle of the night.

I picked a swank hidden speakeasy-ish bar in LIC where the bartenders ne ‘mixologists’ sport suspenders, custom chop your ice, and utilize at least 7 ingredients per beverage. I arrived 2 minutes early (as per usual) while The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not wandered aimlessly along the banks of the East River. Once he realized that “Queens is hard” his call for help was answered with my booming instructions, “WALK NORTH EAST” while the circa 1928 live jazz band rocked out a Cole Porter ditty.

He finally arrived looking like a cross between an undergrad shuffling across the quad to grab a slice and person who was rudely shaken out of bed by the words, “Call 911, the apartment is on fire” This guy was one button fly away from wearing sweat pants… really? But I swallowed my pride and put all my faith in his charm, and thank god the kid had charm.

We talked and laughed and after several fancy drinks (and one Jameson’s – that one’s for you Swason) we gazed glassy eyed at each other across the table. Of course he was adamant that I become a performer (oh sweet child) and demanded that I begin writing my 7 min. stand up routine ASAP. He also told me stories with no endings, or stories that ended like, “So Shelly Long and I spent the afternoon placing 60 mini cottage cheese containers into her fridge”. Maybe it was the free flowing liquor or the jaunty way his head of bobbing black curls danced as he spoke but I was entertained.

The evening ended with a bit of snogging on the empty dark streets of LIC and a walk to the 7 train. I don’t want to tip my hand in fear that The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not may actually read the blog (even though he has stated that he probably will not) so I will just say that it would be lovely to hang out again and maybe hear more about those intriguing D list celebrity cottage cheese containers.

Wonder Woman Hair

I don’t go to Brooklyn like cabbies (or really anybody else) do not go to Queens. It’s not that geographically it’s difficult; it’s that logistically it’s a nightmare. Sure if you squint at our newly shrunken perspective subway map through a polarized lens you may make out a faint lime green subway line that gracefully zig zags its way through Queens to Brooklyn and think, “Wow the G train, what a great way to travel between these two neighboring boroughs!”, ohhh innocence is so sweet. The G is the Hogwarts Express of the MTA system. It runs on a seasonal schedule with departures occurring during a waxing of the lunar cycle during the month of Adar between the hours of 9:18 am and 12:36 pm. Riding, nay viewing the G train in service is like spotting the Yeti. However even with all the barriers constructed to keep the peoples of the outer boroughs separated I not only traveled to Brooklyn this weekend, I took the journey TWICE!

My first jaunt over the rivers (well really only one river but it is traversed four times during the round trip voyage) was very pleasant, with pleasant people and pleasant music, therefore we’ll just skip that story and go directly to Saturday evening when through the help of copious amounts of cheep beer I slowly blurred the line from voyeur of the insane to staring member of the cast of the unclean.

Our first point of entry into the night of the dammed was a large drinking hole along the Coney Island boardwalk that served shots in plastic Dixie Cups and wine from “in flight” mini screw capped bottles. This fine establishment also charged one dollar per bathroom visit which was securely located behind a rough honed slab of plywood jerry-rigged with a taught bungee cord and a rusty eye hook. It wasn’t all bad, they did have a bottomless pit of gurgling lard that churned out corn dogs and fries and a jukebox with all the best disco hits of the late 70’s.

The early evening turned to night as Jesus and I wavered between downing suds, attending a drag show with straight contestants, searching for a non-existent classic hip hop party, bumping and grinding with alcoholic townie octogenarians, making new friends like La-teef who apparently loved gold teeth and his pink wash cloth, and a cast of characters who either wanted to kick our asses or take us home and make sweet sweet love to one or the both of us.

Through this portion of our night time adventure I still had enough of my wits to find this all very entertaining in that ironic “Wow what the F is going on?” kind of way. We were definitely the outsiders, by that I mean we had all our teeth and were not sporting sweat pants and/or fanny packs. Our new palls found us as intriguing as we found them; it was like two clans of monkeys meeting in an open field, both so entertaining….. but then in a moment of clarity I realized, oh good lord we’ve been usurped into the crazy monkey tribe, where did the irony go? We are now the joke!

Our new tribe consisted of a behemoth with a giant pumpkin head and close set eyes, his pall who looked like a taller version of Dustin Hoffman’s “Ratso” and a chunky Mexican who mysteriously appeared with a large tray of cheese fries (yummm cheese fries). Of course when Goonie Goo Goo and Ratso suggested that we follow them to another bar Jesus and I jumped at the offer, (insert Swason’s kick to my face at this point). As we walked to our new locale Goonie Goo Goo proposed marriage several times then after admitting that he was already married he proposed that I merely join him and his wife in their marital bed. The suggestion did sound lovely however because of the current outbreak of bedbugs in our fair city I gently declined the offer.

Ratso, not to be outdone by GGG, piped up and offered to purchase some CRACK for my enjoyment. Oh Ratso, so retro, so 1989. When I declined his generous gift he rattled off a few other illegal substances that he would be more than happy to procure if only I would share in the cost. Brooklyners sure know how to show a lady a good time.

I think it was at about this time that I realized Jesus and I had a better chance at either being raped, kidnapped, and or sold into a prostitution then to ever again see our humble homes. So I did what any other tech savvy almost 40 year old would do, I reached for my blackberry and posted a call to arms on my Facebook status.

By the time we reached our final destination Swason and I were rattling off texts as I laid a trail of cyber bread crumbs. Swason’s finger hovered over her 911 keys and swore that if I took this joke any further neither she nor my mother would sit shiva for me because of my lack of common sense.

Goonie Goo Goo, Ratso, and Cheese Fries eventually caught whiff of our trail (not too hard considering I reeked liked a gutter bum since Jesus found the need to practice his beer spit takes on my boobs) and showed up at the bar which ironically was hosting a gay/ lesbian dance party – of course.
We stayed, we danced, we made new friends, and then at 3:30 am I literally dragged Jesus to the N train where he narrowly avoided ANOTHER tangle with the MTA police (you’re welcome Jesus).

Hours later we both arrived home with scars from the evening’s events and my solemn vow to NEVER visit Brooklyn ever again.

One bright note of the evening: During our night of grime I was approached by a shockingly cute young man who while sipping his beer said sweetly into my ear, “You have Wonder Woman hair”, then walked away. Slick.

Getting a Foot in the Door

This past Friday morning I was greeted with a really normal funny email in my OkCupid mailbox. The guy was charming and clever and his profile (though lacking a proper sized photo) was lush with details and well written – BONUS! We exchanged 2 rounds of witty emails then began IMing.

After a few IM exchanges Mr. Friday lobbed over an unexpected invitation, “What are you doing at 2:30 today? Want to meet me and my friends for a movie at the Ziegfeld?” My knee jerk response was “No Way I don’t know you” but then as the gears turned in my head I thought WTF, just go the movies. This is what the summer is for, meeting a stranger for an afternoon flick, calm the F down and just GO! But before I could accept this blind matinee invitation he addended his offer with “We can hold hands and kiss in the dark” – OH GOOD LORD! Now you are on the creepy side of the Mr. Milk Toast to Robert Chambers continuum. Great. I ignored the quip, hoping that he too realized the oddness of the request after sending it out into the www and was embarrassed by his misplaced prepubescent blurt. I instead inquired about the feature presentation BUT he responded with, “Ok, we could just meet after the movie.” Hmmm, I didn’t remember saying no to the movie, I guess we are moving on.

I agreed to meet Mr. Friday after the movie but because of my very popular Friday night schedule (Fresh Direct order arriving at 8pm) I could only meet for a few drinks. He suggested going for a cup of tea then holding hands and kissing on my couch. Really? What is it with this holding hands and kissing? And on MY couch, who the F are you? I attempted to stay on the humorous side of the request by assuming that he too was ummmm… just kidding (as the kids say). But my “easy killer, let’s keep my couch out of this” reply butted up against his response suggesting that I was uptight and prudish… oh no you didn’t. The gauntlet was thrown.

To keep this guy out of my apartment but show him that I was “up for fun” I suggested two establishments located in LIC where we could either get a drink or a cup of tea (insert eye roll) followed by a stroll along The East River and snogging to our heart’s content. He was nonplussed at my suggestions and stated that he would call me later to discuss the evening’s details.

Not feeling all that confident with this pushy lothario I turned to my dating guru Lola. I shot her an email outlining the pertinent facts then asked if I should “Calm the F down or shut this guy down?” Lola responded with, “Meet Him! If he's creeptastic, shut it down, If he's super cute and funny and the rest -- do it”. Yes of course that is what I should do, I’m freaking 39 years old and it’s the summer, why am I getting all wacko?

About an hour later my phone rang, it was Mr. Friday. He sounded charming, he liked my voice, we exchanged pleasantries then he asked, “So what are we doing tonight?” I repeated my proposal of public establishment followed by “we’ll see”, Mr. Friday was not happy with that arrangement at all. He repeated several times that he wasn’t looking to have sex but he was not a guy who sits in bars or clubs or kisses in public, he would rather sit on my couch, watch TV, hold hands, and makeout. Ok people fess up WHO told this guy about my new 32” TV and my most amazing red couch? I laughed him off, still trying to stay light and humorous explaining that we didn’t know each other so why not just agree to meet up for “a cup of tea” (don’t know if this guy had a tea or a couch fetish) THEN after that see what happens. He pushed back explaining that he was “type A” and needed to know the entire plan for the evening and that he would not agree to meet me unless I promised that after one drink we would be snuggled up in my apartment (of course no sex). I kept hearing my guru’s voice in my head, just do it, don’t be so uptight, have some fun. So with a carefree sigh I agreed and asked where and when we were meeting. Mr. Friday only could give me time, 6:30pm and he would text me later with location. Ughhh…

The envelop of down time between 3 – 5 pm afforded me the opportunity of clarity of thought. I ran analogies through my pea brain such as; If I had a pile of $200,000 in small bills and placed it on a table in front of a stranger then asked them to guard it until I returned, would I trust them? No way! But I am going to blindly trust this Mr. Friday with my life? Is my life worth less than $200,000? If I open the door to this man I am basically saying, “Hi welcome to my home, please don’t kill, rape or mutilate me, OK? I am putting all my trust in you, for no other reason than the fact you had perfect grammar in your OkCupid email.” And this whole kissing thing, good lord, just post an “Intimate Connections” add on Craig’s list, I am sure there is some fetishist that would be totally into this, however this is NOT a date. There are a number of men I would love to canoodle on my couch in the coolness of my AC on a Friday night, men that I KNOW, why would I invite a stranger over to hold my hand and neck?

Long story longer he texted me at 6:10 (nice since we were supposed to meet at 6:30) asking, “What’s the plan?” I replied, “I thought we were meeting for a drink and btw my apt. is off the menu.” He quickly retorted, “Sounds like our intentions are different. Good Night”.

Two hours later Swason and I were tossing back beers and eating a smorgasbord of finger foods with me on my couch and her curled up in my big chair, watching my huge new TV in the sub zero temps of my kick butt air conditioners, it could not have been a better Friday night.

On Line Dating Update or A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

Haven’t blogged in a long time and haven’t dated in a long time either however not to fear I have not been sitting on the side lines waiting for a hunky temp to cover vacation leave for our UPS dude, no I have been quietly dabbling online within the free OKCupid universe where I sadly average a 40:1 ratio. I send out 40 charming witty emails, I receive one unsolicited illiterate email. However a few weeks ago I received an email from a gent that was extremely well written and shockingly entertaining. Hmm…. interesting.

I have been burnt before by a well written email (remember Vet Tech, Summer 2009?), so I wasn’t gonna fall for that crap again. Modern day faceless/ voiceless electronic communication has given a voice to those men/ boys who have never masterred real world socialization. With the use of millions of tiny zeros and ones flying through the World Wide Web these knobs have finely crafted a universe where they are actually charismatic and charming, luring me with promises of sarcastic wit, lively banter, and hearty belly laughs. This dear readers is a lie. For in the RW (real world) these electronic Cyranos are a pile of sludge unable to dress themselves, complete a sentence, or in Vet Tech’s case, have enough self confidence to order me a drink. Therefore when I received this well crafted email several weeks ago my bull shit meter was engaged. I countered immediately with a very direct response hoping I would thwart a repeat of my past over confidence in the written word to woo.

It has now been a several weeks since the first email plopped into my inbox and he has yet to ask me out for a cup of coffee, really? As I sit here in my empty office about to pull the plug on this ever increasingly boring ping pong of endless email exchanges I reach out to you, the cheering throngs, forever hopping that one day I will have a second date with a man NOT wearing belted leather sports jacket and ask for your input. Maybe I am jaded? Maybe I am self sabotaging? Maybe I’m not being open enough to the universe? Because of all these internal monologs, and many more, I am handing over the power for you to decide HOW and IF I continue this relentless electronic courtship. Below please find excerpts from our OKCupid private messaging sessions and let me know if you would like to see me pursue this mystery man or call his bluff.

June 22nd
Message from Agrumpyman
Your profile is truly fantastic, well written and passionately presented. In fact, it is superb…. film and music buff, loves sarcasm almost as much as food and wine and good conversation, and is in a giddy state because of your truly lovely profile…..

Me - Your “OKC” handle combined with your lack of photo are a bit disconcerting… however I could not resist replying to your most complimentary electronic missive…

Agrumpyman - I am sorry to hear you find my humourous profile name disconcerting; it is but merely to evoke mirth and merriment upon the OKC elite. … apologise for the lack of picture; it is a choice not to be available for perusal by the OKC unwashed masses during their moments of boredom… offer a view…to those who are interested and more than a little intrigued by my resemblance to abominable snowmen and horned quadripeds……

(we exchanged two more rounds of well written banter)

June 24th
Me - ….I have decided that I can no longer ping pong this email banter until I see photos…

Agrumpyman …..(link to private site with tightly cropped head shot) you will see my carefully coiffed beardedness and scream in horror. Once you have absorbed the initial shock and resigned yourself to despondency, please feel free to pen a short missive describing the scars left by the big reveal…..

Me - These emails are a fun distraction however I do have to mention your propensity for self deprecation is a bit unflattering…… Your withholding of photos (the one you released is smaller than my passport photo) combined with your continuous self loathing gives an impression that you either have body issues and or self esteem issues, neither of these qualities is something I am looking for in a cohort…. By stating (even jokingly) that I would be repulsed by the sight of you, you are deliberately under valuating yourself and assuming that I am shallow – I am not shallow but I know what I like; confidence and power, not victim passivity.

Agrumpyman - … So what you perceive as a propensity to self flog is nothing of the kind, it all serves to create witty banter, tamp down on the excesses of raging egomania and helps position oneself in relation the world's absurdities…. I maintain a healthy, perhaps even overdeveloped, sense of worth, self and my position in the world. Now, I admit I do not know how to present that through here, as I thought that self deprecation is the correct way...Other than meeting you for a coffee when I return from vacation, please do suggest what else might be appropriate. You mentioned my picture being too small… I look exactly the same in all other photographs…perhaps another picture showing the exact same things at different size would work?...I think you have put a somewhat impossible task on me…so, pointers please…

(some days later after a pleading email from agrumpyman)

July 1
Me- Re photo: It’s the cropping that is miniscule, not the size…. I have publically posted a good deal of photos in different situations and even a full body shot and all I get from you is a TIGHTLY cropped face shot. In this age of the www dating when so many wack-a doodles are flooding the market it is a bit of a red flag when a dude is really cagey about presenting an image (or several) that fully expresses his persona. It’s part of the package, brains plus the physical, and it does makes a statement when one withholds a big chunk of the a comprehensive illustration.

Agrumpyman - … As I am in my beloved European homeland right now and not coming back for a couple of weeks I would urge your patience till I can either get back home…and reach for the digital vaults or conjure up a new photo here… I can assure you that you will be amply rewarded as soon as feasible on this end.

July14
Agrumpyman - I have returned to deafening silence…

Me- According to my home scoring sheet the ball is still on your side of the court. You may want to review your last communication for I believe you will see a proposed promise….

(Last email received yesterday)
Agrumpyman - You remain funny but it is customary… to reply to one's missive, whether it is bearing gifts or not…so what kind of restitution should be exacted in order for the cosmic balance to be upheld?

Ok Kids start your judging – is it a red flag that he persistently refuses to post a full detailed photo after I have repeatedly stated that this is an issue (he could be married and hiding his identity or worse has the propensity for wearing a masters of the universe neck tie) or do I throw caution to the wind?

How To Stop a European In Their Tracks

It’s summer season and the city is flooded with pond jumpers. With the Euro falling like a lead pig I would have thought the fanny packed chain smoking tight pants wearing throngs would have kept close to leur maison…ehhh not so much.

Us city dwellers have a long history of dealing with our influx of tourists, sure we NEED them for the economy BUT really can’t Bloomberg corral them into Times Square and let them wander ‘round aimlessly with their Abercrombie & Fitch shopping bags and sun burnt heads tilted towards the sky? Believe me they will be happy little clams and return from whence they came overflowing with wondrous tales of the big city.

Unfortunately the reality is they are among us, commingling on our sidewalks and mass transit. For decades we’ve shared our public spaces with these world travelers and have become accustomed to their inexplicable lack of movement when faced with the precariously daunting exercise of ascending or descending a staircase or escalator. Yes moving up and or down is very risky behavior and all New Yorkers expect you (and your brood) to immediately cease all movement once you’ve reached either the top or bottom landing of any stepped edifice, however what the CRAP is up with the doorway thing?

Through my non-scientific research I have discovered that Europeans are deathly afraid of doorways, these gateways to the unknown have so boggled the minds of our international guests that I am certain if I Google Earthed the Continent I would discover bewildered locals amassed on either side of the Arc de Triomphe, the Brandenburg Gate, and the Arch of Constantine. Or maybe they reserve this behavior solely for overseas travel, la how jolly. For there is nothing quite like entering an establishment behind a family of 5 only to be denied admission due to the defensive line of immobility. Or while exiting being greeted by the couple who took one step outside then decided the doorframe would be the PERFECT location for a smoke and chat.

This afternoon after squeezing past dozens of frozen foreigners (‘cause not even a gentle “excuse me” can propel them back into motion) I took matters (and a door) into my own hands.

While attempting to exit a shop on Lexington Ave I was trapped behind a bedazzled Italian couple who not only allowed the door slam behind them (nice – in my face) but then stood directly in front of the glass door blocking all pedestrian traffic both in and out of the establishment. The backup began to grow on the sidewalk with frustrated customers trying to sidestep ‘round our stationary interlopers, meanwhile I was poised, hand firmly on the push bar, with at least 4 women behind me audibly grunting their disapproval. This is not my proudest moment (or maybe it is) but I swung the door open making full contact with Rudolpho’s back and right shoulder (goooaaaaal) forcing him to pivot just enough to allow the rushing dam waters of annoyed NYers to push past him and his Metallic Graphic T wife.

Where has the time gone?

I know it’s awful, I have really let this blogging thing go to the dogs, but strangely enough NOTHING bizarre has happened in my life.

I’ve stopped internet dating, not because I’ve found my bo-hunk but because the daily influx of illiteratatti combined with MONTHS of non-matching/ non- responses was turning your favorite Sweet Polly Sunshine into a bitter crab apple.

The weather is finally cooperating after 26 months of cold dampness, fingers crossed, I may return to my luscious brown nuttiness.

The apartment is holding together and I weathered the false Bed Bug scare like a champ – after space bagging my entire abode ala E.T. home style then totally falling apart into tears.

My job is fantastic, The Lady thinks I am a super star and through my amazing mind control I have convinced her that buying new uber fancy office chairs and closing the office at 1pm on Fridays were both her ideas. However last week I was back to my old tricks again when I accidently pinned her behind the office door thereby smashing her very dainty hand– gulp.

So all is swell, spending tons of time with good pals, traveling, being awarded with the Key To The City, and just this past weekend I was proposed to by another Gay! So this now makes the tally 4 engagements; 3 gay and one underage straight. Funny these boys just blurt out proposals yet NONE of them have ever presented a ring, I am beginning to think this whole thing is a hoax.

Oh Little Butterfly

Last night I returned to my ol’ stomping grounds, NYC Opera, to catch a night of gut wrenching operatic fanfare. The place looks spiffy with its sleek new box office but what was Mr. Koch thinking with those new seats!? During my tenure in production I logged plenty of rehearsal hours, both consciously note taking and much to the chagrin of several directors shamelessly napping, to know the uber comfort of the State Theater’s Orch Row S’s plush seats however now in the newly renovated house I could hardly wedge my “lusciousness” between the arm rests and because of the very low narrow seat backs my shoulders were tenuously hovering between those of my neighboring seat mates. No I did not widen - actually I have shrunken. I am certain that this rump space reduction is solely the result of the installation of narrower seats to make up for the loss of several rows due to the orchestra pit extension. I guess we all have to sacrifice a bit for the arts.

Anyways after some wiggling I squished myself down into the hip vice, a.k.a. Seat 35, and settled in for 3 hours of broken hearted Japanese girl vs. douche bag American sailor. Good lord Pinkerton, could you be more if an irresponsible a-hole? Butterfly totally cut him a deal (spoiler alert) with Pinkerton only serving a life time sentence of guilt for Butterfly’s honorable death. Now a-days you know Butterfly would be all up in the Us Weekly with a headline, “Benjamin Franklin is my Baby’s Daddy!”, or Suzuki would be releasing their ‘secretive’ sex tape the day before Pinkerton’s admiral promotion. Ahhh how the times have changed.