Maybe My Gays Have Ruined My Dating Pool?

I am still trolling the internets searching for my man cause as we all know I love to have a project, however I think I liked last Autumn’s project better - see painting my kitchen. No doubt it is a long haul however instead of becoming weary over the poor collection of first daters I have acquired I seem to be drastically lowering my expectations and standards as the months (years) fade away behind me. Case in point “Late Night Dater” (AKA - LND).

LND contacted me a few weeks ago in response to my OKCupid profile, his emails were well written and clever (even though he did begin our electronic correspondence by inquiring about the partial tattoo in view on my left breast) however because of his out of town travel, my cold, and then my jaunt out West we had to delay the ritualistic face to face “public cocktail” until late last week.

When LND called to set the date he informed me that he worked until 11pm so our date would be commencing at the witching hour – oh good grief. Really the last thing I want to do on a cold Friday night is drag my cozy ass out of my apartment after 11pm to meet a guy for a FIRST date – but one must do what one must do so I slapped on a coat of makeup, flat ironed my bangs, strapped on my heals and headed on out to the subway like a 23 year old bridge and tunnel kid (sans a can of beer concealed within a brown bag with a straw).

While on the subway LND was furiously sending off the texts, first informing me that he was so concerned about looking good for our first date that in his fervor he sliced his neck shaving and was very embarrassed about his oozing laceration. Then he texted to inform me that the bar I had chosen in LIC had a line and that it was at capacity. Bizarre, I didn’t know I frequented such trendy places, but I guess that’s what happens after 11:30pm on a Friday.

I arrived as the crowd was starting to thin out so it was just moments until we were seated at the bar. LND was awkward and nervous but gentile and charming. He’s cultured and highly educated but as he spoke all I could think was – really you were concerned about “looking good” for our first date!? Maybe it was a conscious decision to pull focus from his gnarled neck by sporting a faded and ratty gray (sic black) polo shirt with a collar that resembled two pieces of limp rotelli and jeans that sagged and billowed on the floor? Is this really what a grown man wears to work and to a date? How about a pair of (size appropriate) dark jeans, a clean T shirt and a V neck sweater – that’s all I need. Have some pride in yourself, and some respect for me. I pulled my tired ass out of my apartment at 11pm for HIM and dolled myself up. Maybe I should have just worn sweats and a stained T shirt, hell why even put on a bra or shoes even, slippers are so much more comfortable and really shouldn’t we all strive for comfort, one nation united under snuggies, or as I like to call them “the adult one-sie”. Really why even shower at all, let’s just let all social conventions go to the way side and be slobs.

Fashion aside I also got a strange vibe while we sipped our artfully crafted top shelf cocktails, well not strange, just… ummmmm….gay. YES GAY! I think I was on a date with a GAY GUY, unfortunately he didn’t have the gay dressing gene, only the gay voice and mannerism gene….. great, what the F am I gonna do with that? I mean if I’m gonna date a gay then I want me a finely bespoken butch (you know who you are), not a hobo swish.

At the end of the night, or early morning, I couldn’t tell if I was overtired or bored. He was really sweet and did all the right things, despite spilling my drink into my lap, but there was just….. nothing. Still I am open and available, good vibes….good vibes so when LND emailed for a second date I said “Yes”. Basically unless a guy is an axe murdered (or a hunchbacked little person with a limp – no really that happened) I will always accept a second date invitation cause sometimes guys need a second chance to shine (especially nervous ones).

LND suggested a lunch date, since his work schedule has him chained to a desk between the hours of 2pm to 11pm, and by chance he works just steps from my office on the Upper East Side – bonus bonus – not only am I on the UES but it is also home to MANY yummy critically acclaimed charming eateries. Quickly we exchanged emails confirming the date and time and cuisine, Chinese. Fantastic Chinese. I was certain he would then offer Tao or any other quaint Asian bistro as our second date local - but wow was I off. He is taking me to China Fun, FREAKIN’ CHINA FUN!!!! China Fun home to the $7.00 greasy lunch special, are you kidding me? This is how you use your second chance, this is how you court a 40 year old woman? Yet again this is NOT about money (the guy makes money) this is about respect and courtship and having a CLUE. There are a BILLION places on the UES he could choose that would be lovely and charming and NOT expensive but by selecting a takeout joint for a second date he is basically stating – you’re not worth a reservation, a cloth napkin or flatware.

So much to decide between now and Thursday, egg roll, soup or soda…. Hmmmmm?

(PS sorry for the lack of funny images, my computer is sad today).

And You Are Here For…..?

Please allow me to begin this posting with a gut wrenching UGHHHHH, Christ on a cracker!!!! Insert raised shaken fist – and boy do I know where I would like to insert that fist.

First on my list of “if you weren’t sitting behind that bullet proof glass I would kill you” is the numb nut receptionist at my new GP’s (doctor’s) office. This physician whom I recently tapped as my GP,after years of neglecting my general health, ran a full physical exam, submitted my blood work to the lab, and requested that I see 4 specialists to check out some other random health related issues (see: alien baby growing in my scalp). In one month’s time I was to return for a detailed health analysis thereby fulfilling my personal oath to enter my 40’s with a medical baseline. Unfortunately what I did not take into account when I made my appointment 30 days ago was that my doctor (and her staff) was/were ASHOLES!

In just 3 weeks I saw the audiologist, dermatologist, gynecologist and radiologist. My test results were forwarded to my GP and oh boy was I excited to have a real sit down chat with my new doc. Being me, I called the office on Monday confirmed my Friday 3pm appointment and informed my employer that I would need to take a half day to attend to my health.

I arrived at the doc at 2:45 (early as per me), signed in, and took a seat. At 3:30 the receptionist called my name and shouted through the bullet proof glass, “DO YOU HAVE AN APPOITMENT”. Confused I answered, “Yes, 3pm”. Numb nut, “For what?” I think we all know where this question and answerer exchange was going. Yep after numb nut explained that not only did I NOT have an appointment but they NEVER take appointments, I freaked out. Turns out the practice functioned like a walk in clinic and I was informed that it would only be another 1.5 hours until the doctor could see me. WTF!!!! I asked if the doctor could call with my lab results and was told, “We don’t do that”. I then asked why they didn’t tell me a month ago when I MADE the appointment or on Monday when I confirmed the appointment that they didn’t take appointments – numb nut said, “Well it’s a not like it’s a problem, you can just wait”. It was a problem, I took off a half day of work AND I had to be on a train at 4:35, Ughhhh!!!! I ended the confrontation by yelling “Would you at least call me if my labs showed something? I guess I don’t have diabetes or an STD? How was my mammogram and chest x-ray? Asthma, breast cancer?” Numb nut - “Well yeah, I guess you’re Ok”.

Unfortunately my grand sweeping storming out of the packed waiting room was anticlimactic since the exit door is also the elevator door which remained closed for what seemed to be a very uncomfortable eternity.

Now it’s back to the beginning. I’m searching for a new GP who can interpret my lab results and partner with me in a life of good health. Oh and TAKE APPOINTMENTS!

How Low Can You Go?

Friday Night Date Recap:

I arrived at the bar before Tim (of course); well actually I arrived at the bar before anybody. At 6pm I was the only soul in the place so I plopped myself down on a spinny red bar stool and ordered up a Tom Collins. A few moments later Tim strode through the swinging door festooned in his circa 1984 finest. Really!? This guy is 37 years old and he is wearing high wasted light blue stone washed jeans with his shirt cuffs flipped over his jacket then rolled up to his elbows ala Miami Vice – ughhhhh. Oh AND he had a pony tail! Yep he had slicked back his tawny brown hair into a 3” pubic hair poof that sat complacently on his shirt collar. HOT.

His personality was Ok and with just a few drinks our conversation began to flow. He wasn’t particularly entertaining or flattering but he was intelligent and we agreed on most major topics (religion, politics, the hatred of slow tourists clogging up our streets, etc…). As I sat there listening to him talk about his intimate relationship with show tunes and his love of Lady Gaga (I know, I know) I cataloged how much time and money it would take to make this guy appropriate for prime time, and really it wasn’t that much. A ten dollar super cut and a quick pop into a Gap and he would be a totally different guy, there was a good foundation there…. I thought.

After he downed his second cocktail he took me next door for dinner. Yes kudos to me for getting to step two on a first date. We ate and drank and talked about pop culture and travel. Sure there may have been red flags; his undying love of Tom Selleck, his claim that “Jackass the Movie” was the funniest film ever to be screened, his fanatic appreciation of Buffy The Vampire Slayer (complete with a table side reenactment of the “musical” episode), and his pick for “the one guy I would go gay for” – Tim Gunn. But hey if I’m looking past the pony tail and the grandpa jeans I can give concessions to the vocal gaffs, right? Lord knows I’ve sat across the table from a lot worse.

Dinner was finished and he suggested dessert – well duhhhh of course. His gooey chocolate concoction arrived with two fortune cookies daintily balanced on either side of the bowl; he took one then offered the other to me. His paper fortune revealed some pithy statement whiles mine… well…. if I could find the guy who penned this culinary communiqué I would punch him in the FACE! Yep I cracked open my cookie, took one look at my fortune, placed it back onto the table and said, “Ok moving on…” Tim of course wanted to know what it said and prodded me to read it out loud. So with all I had in me I lifted the asinine missive and read the following in a full voice, “You will never go hungry”. Yeah…. like that’s not uncomfortable coming from the lips of a chick who has been classified morbidly obese since the age of 9.

Out into the cool night Tim walked me to the subway. By this time between the sumptm3kY dinner and the several glasses of wine I was totally over all my judgy judgmental-ness (so the guy has a pony tail and loves big bushy mustaches, I can look past that) and I was totally revving up for a good old smooch. I did the prerequisite, “Thanks I had a great time” then he leaned over….and….. gave me the one armed open shoulder to shoulder hug. What The??!!! How did that freaking happen?

The next day I sent off a quickie email reiterating my appreciativeness of the past night’s entertainment and offered up an idea for a next date if he so wished, and guess what? I got NO RESPONSE! How could that even be? I mean come on, who is this guy waiting for? How many kick ass cool chicks are out there in this big city that will overlook all his misgivings and still give him the benefit of the doubt? Am I that lame that I can’t even get a second date from this guy? Ughhhhhh. How low do I have to stoop?

Yes I Would Love To Join You!

I’ve recently been inundated with a new social phenomenon, the “non invite, invite”. The non invite, invite is infiltrating my social circle’s modus operandi like a legion of phragmites headed towards the marshy flatlands of eastern Long Island (Too random a reference?). Like its predecessor the ever popular lack luster “Non RSVP” the Non Invite, Invite (or NII) has taken hold of the new millennium’s masses and I fear it is sticking.

I first noticed the NII a few years back when Scooter in his awesomely manipulating manner would ask, “Hey are you doing anything later?” I would answer, “No totally free. Wanna do something?” He would then respond, “Ummm not too sure. Give me a call later and I’ll let you know if I can.” WHAT THE FUCK!? Seriously, and he would get me every time. I let it slide cause… well…. it was Scooter and that was how we rolled. Now not only do I get this behavior from a multitude of close friends I’m also on the receiving end of NII from random acquaintances. What is going on? Why would anybody seek me out, extend an invitation, then when I am enthusiastically agreeable to their suggested socialization - drop me. Maybe I should be more like the NON RSVPers, and stay remote. Refuse not only to respond to the invitation but indeed not even acknowledge the receipt of said invitation. Those are the people when asked, “Did you get my invitation I sent last week to the dinner party I am hosting in 3 days?” respond with “Oh yeah I saw that email in my inbox, I just haven’t opened it yet”. Really, my invitation didn’t even rate the sudden double twitch of your pointer finger? Be-Je-Bus Christ! The good thing is that I have weeded most Non RSVPers out of my life, F You controlling bastards; Gail does not wait on you. However the NII is secretive, you never know when the NII will strike or who will hand it out, therefore making it much less easily preemptively eradicated.

Case in point just yesterday I was on the receiving end of a NII from a perspective suitor from OK Cupid. After exchanging a litany of drunken flirtatious emails on Wednesday evening (side note under “things I learned this summer” - my drunken flirting yields high results) he asked, “Do you want to meet for a drink or something this weekend?” I replied agreeably and gave him my gmail address so we could continue our communication removed from the OKCupid conduit. Next is an excerpt from our exchange yesterday:

He: “Hi still up for going out this weekend?”
Me: “Great! Tomorrow or Sunday would be perfect, Saturday not so free”
He: “I guess tomorrow is Ok. Any part of town?”
Me: “In Manhattan any place between Canal and the 70’s is fine. And I’m free after 5pm”
He: “How about Union Square or NoHo?”
Me: PERFECT! I know both neighborhoods really well.

SILENCE……………

Yep for the next 5.5 hours there was no communication. WTF? By 10:30pm last night I hadn’t heard anything and was totally unsure if we were still on for tonight. Now I’m not being all Type A or wacko, I just need to know if (1) was he the one guy killed in the NYC tornado and (2) do I need to dress for a date (and pack makeup, hair goop, and heels) when I leave my apartment at 8:45 am or will I be returning back to Queens after work to change cause the “date” isn’t till 9pm? Ughhhh so annoying and controlling to leave me hanging therefore I had to be that chick and email him, “Hi, wanted to know if there is a time that we are meeting up tomorrow?” he responded, “Oh I guess after work sometime, my schedule is totally open. I’ll text you sometime tomorrow”. And again, WHAT THE FUCK!!?? If your schedule is totally open and you are asking me out then TELL ME WHEN AND WHERE!!!! Am I supposed to show up at work today with 3 sets of clothes, and shoes, and bags patiently awaiting your text with baited breath in hopes that SOMETHING may be appropriate for this mystery date?

So long story longer - feeling totally apathetic to tonight’s date I tossed on some random clothes this morning and awaited the buzz of my silenced blackberry. At 3pm I got the info and of course the dude went rogue and picked a place a little more posh than I had expected, oh well hopefully it will be dark and I’ll be drunk quickly.

BUI continued - Pieces of Me

The ESL receptionists at my GP’s office were very sweet to recommend a multi-lingual dermatologist in Jackson Heights located under the elevated tracks of the 7 train however I work on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the home of the most dermatologists per capita, so I went rogue.

Dr. Good Skin’s office located between Park and Lex in the East 60’s looked like a movie set, all white and modern with model perfect girls in body flattering light blue scrubs and dewy skin. I’ve never been to a dermatologist but I am certain that this practice was way better than ANY previously recommended Jackson Heights under the subway tracks establishment, even if they did served fried chicken in the back room.

After a quickie once over by the nurse followed by a conversation regarding my fainting tendencies the doctor examined the nugget baby growing in my hairline. Baby nugget has been thriving in its parasitic livelihood for over a decade now and has grown from a small pea to the size of a large grape. It’s unnoticeable to all except me, and a guy this summer who during a moment of intimacy began to run his hand adoringly through my silky raven hair, then abruptly froze, widened his eyes and slowly said, “What is that?”… game over, nugget OUT!

However Dr. Good Skin had a different plan, nugget baby could wait. We scheduled the abortion for Dec. just in case he needs to shave my head - cause there is NO WAY I am gonna turn 40 in Nov. without ¼ of my hair, then Dr. Good Skin turned his discerning eye to a black mole located on my left wrist and in seconds flat he prepped me for minor surgery.

Ok so maybe it’s a glorified cheese slicer operation and not really minor surgery however whatever you want to call it I’ll tell you what I call it “Faint Inducing Medical Behavior” – yep I went down. I was kinda OK while Doc did the slicing, it was the “Hey G, take a look at this” when he was done that took me out. Ears rang, toes tingled, and cold sweat magically popped up along my top lip. The nurse got me flat out and popped open a cold can of coke while she and the Doc discussed how in hell they were gonna perform the extrication in December without one of them driving me home and tucking me into bed.

I exited the office with a bandage on my wrist and instructions for daily cleansing and redressing. Of course yesterday morning when I was instructed to “remove the bandage in the shower and wash with warm soapy water” I discovered that my apartment needed cleaning, the dishwasher needed emptying, sheets and towels needed changing, really EVERYTHING had to be done before I took a shower and readied for work. Finally after 45 minutes of puttering I stepped into the shower and with my eyes firmly closed I gently peeled back the dressing and washed my wrist. Blind drying and re-bandaging was a trick but I got it done without vomiting or passing out – now I all I have to do is get through the next 8 days of recovery and maybe within 2 weeks I’ll look at my left hand again(or maybe not).

FYI - NEVER goggle image search "Cyst on scalp"

Blogging Under The Influence

I’m not confident that blogging after downing a half bottle of cabernet sauvignon is the best decision I’ve made however it is certainly not the worst (side note I just made a ziti hero, now THAT may reveal itself as NOT a good idea). I am certain however that my usually spotty at best editing skills will be extremely marginalized, my word choices will undoubtedly be reduced to the vocab of a brainy 7th grader and subject matter that would normally be excluded to save myself (and others) from life ending embarrassment will somehow magically remain upon my page. Let’s DO this!

As the summer comes slowing winding down I am reminded that in just 2.5 months time I will be rockin’ in my 40’s. That is such a freaking mind fuck . 40, I’m turning 40. I feel like Samantha in “16 Candles” when she wakes up on her 16th birthday expecting that EVERYTHING will be different yet quickly discovers that nothing has changed. I am confident that on Nov. 22nd 2010 I will be the same BUT there is something mysterious and awesome about the 40, there is weight to the 40, significance to the 40.

With 40 on deck and my health insurance re-instated I decided to finally schedule all those pesky appointments that the G in her 30’s disregarded. First up, find a new GP and get a full medical exam and physical – check! Side note - native Spanish speakers find my name impossible to pronounce which became extremely apparent, and frustrating for the receptionists, when they repeatedly yelled “Gay?, GAY?” through their sliding glass window when they required my health insurance ID. Even though I was the only patient in the waiting room I totally ignored their calls for attention for I was fully engaged in the novella on the giant flat screen suspended directly over my head.

My new GP is great however when did I get so old that it is possible for my doctor to be YOUNGER than me? The chick Dr. looked 27, can that even be legal? Maybe she is one of those prodigies who began med school at 14, yeah let’s go with that. During the exam we disused my self diagnosed loss of hearing in my left ear, the growth on my head (that I swear is an alien slowing nursing off my gray matter), and my family’s cancer history. 1.5 hours later I was out on the sundrenched streets of Woodside with my sweaty fist clenched ‘round referrals for a dermatologist, audiologist, gynecologist, a chest x-ray, and a mammogram. Kiss my ass 40… here I COME!

UPDATE: Monkeys and Hairdryers

You know how when somebody mentions monkeys riding atop dogs then like you see them everywhere? You pause to ponder, have there always been monkeys on dogs and I never noticed or is this some odd turning of the universe positioning me in the path of dog jockey monkeys? I ask these questions for the simple fact that just hours after sharing my hairdryer monkey/ bedbug beagle story with my coworkesr our Executive VP in charge of Private Collections summoned me to her desk. The EVP/PC cracked open a large book and proceeded to show me a print of one of “The Lady’s” collection of ancient Indian art.
She pointed in the direction of two furry characters in the lower section of the imagery falderal to which I responded, “Oh… that’s a monkey on a goat, not a dog, good try”. She glanced at me with distain, I obviously do not have the trained eye of an Executive VP in charge of Private Collections, and she said sternly, “No, NEXT to the goat, that’s a monkey on a DOG!” Wholly CRAP, even the ancient Indians knew how to harness the power of dogs and monkeys!

Dialog of the print:
Spotted dog: WTF, that’s my baboon!! Who said that goat could have my monkey?

Goat: inner monologue…. Oh crap….Don’t look back, DON’T LOOK BACK!

Man: Chill-ax dog, how many times do I have to tell you, you snooze you loose?

(side note, I have been informed by the EVP/PC that it is not really a baboon but a bear cub riding the goat, damn this chick got mad art skilz)

Monkeys and Hairdryers

Unless you live under a rock or outside the NY City limits (see: “living under a rock”) you are as terrified as I regarding the bedbug infestation currently kicking Manhattan’s ass.

Bedbugs are shacking up and shutting the doors at Victoria's Secret, Hollister, Abercrombie & Fitch, The Time Warner Center, and the Times Square AMC. Even our beloved Empire State Building has reported a case of the creepy crawlies. There have been many speculations as to why we are in such dire straits but most experts point their bloodied nub of a gnawed finger at the illegalization of DDT. Thanks late 1970’s earth loving hippies for fighting the good fight against carcinogens, but REALLY does it make me a bad person because I would rather trade the extinction of the bald eagle for a lifetime free of nocturnal parasites feeding off my flesh?

Face it bedbugs are our new modern reality but since we are battling them old school (Holla to the Middle Ages homes!) several exterminating companies have employed bedbug sniffing beagles to determine whether or not a business or abode is contaminated. Yes even the uber posh Bergdorf Goodman’s has employed a full time pooch to patrol the premises after dark for fear that some globetrotting Euro shopper deposited an offending bloodsucker in their sparkling tower of consumption.

The following is an actual phone conversation between my mother and me regarding the use of beagles in the battle to eradicate the Manhattan bedbug plague.

Me: Did you hear that Bergdorf’s is using a beagle to sniff out bedbugs?

Mom: Really? All they have to do is turn up the heat to 140 degrees to kill them all.

Me: No Mom, you need direct heat like a hair dryer.

Mom: Oh well then what they need is a monkey.

Me: A monkey?

Mom: Of course a monkey. The dog can only sniff out the bugs; you need the monkey to shoot them with the hair dryer.

Me: Oh right, maybe the monkey could ride ON the dog?

Mom: He could but you would need a saddle.

Me: Like in the circus, monkeys always ride on dogs.

Mom: Yes, monkeys love riding dogs; it is very natural for them.

Me: I think I would need a cordless hairdryer though.

Mom: No just get one with a long cord, it will be fine.

Me: Nah then I would have to train the monkey to plug and unplug the dryer and it would probably get tangled.

Mom: Ah you are right a cordless hair dryer is a good idea. Oh and you should gaff tape the hairdryer to the monkey, that way he doesn’t lose it. You can’t trust a monkey with a hairdryer.

Me: That sounds cruel.

Mom: Monkeys are Ok with that, they have lots of fur. He probably won’t even feel it.

Me: I could probably get a monkey on Craig’s List.

Mom: I am certain Craig’s List has monkeys. You should get one of those nice organ grinder monkeys. I haven’t seen an organ grinder since the 30’s so there must be MANY available monkeys looking for work.

Me: Yes those old Italian guys with their organ grinders. Maybe I could get a monkey with a fez.

Mom: Now G don’t be ridiculous, the last thing you want is an Italian monkey. Just get yourself a nice simple American monkey, you are making this all too complicated.

Me: Sorry.
The conversation concluded with mom’s monkey training instructions, “Monkey see, monkey do” and monkey/dog security, “Keep them in your apartment, youdon’t want people stealing them. You are gonna have yourself one hot commodity!”

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.