"Now that you are not working, you need a boyfriend. No, seriously... you are 22 years old, you're not fugly - I mean, if you were fugly I'd just say poor thing, but your not - by Christmas, your not coming home if your coming alone." And that is what I woke up to, hazy in a hangover, on Saturday morning November 7th. To top it all off? "I really don't see why that should be so difficult - when I was 22, people were falling all over me, I'd lift my leg and there they were!" Well isn't that great... for my mother. The lifting of the leg story explains how my brothers and I arrived on this green earth, however now that we're here, mother hen has some demands. Amongst them? That she doesn't have to spend Christmas (were jewish) with us - because for years she has been hoping that we will call to say "sorry, we'd love to, but we'll be doing something fabulous with our significant others". Know what I say to that!? Maybe I don't have a boyfriend because I lack a certain,... maternal gene. But whether it be out of love, or lust for alone time - my mother has now become more desperate than most Manhattan women and is on the prowl by proxy. So now to ensure that I won't be home for Christmas, I will be dating, mating and extricating in the fast lane - the 48 day "fast" lane to be exact. And of course, like any Jewish mother with high X-mas list demands, there are rules; no one sleezy (thanks mom), no one from the past, and no one who doesn't have holiday plans they must include with this NY jew,... they may be celebrating their savior, my mother will be celebrating hers. So read, enjoy, and let the games begin.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
SOHO TONIGHT
Survival of the Fittest
Passing a high school on a walk down 17th street, I uncovered the problems in dating, and possibly even human evolution. While I was literally flashed 3 times by girls in skirts they could blink, I also passed an equally aged boy in sheer amazement at the workings of the mechanical pencil. You hit the eraser, and lead comes out. As for the future teen pregnancy statistics, is this what I am competing against? I mean, I'm good... but I can't beat anyone out if they refuse to wear clothes... to school.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Touchdown?
Sunday November 8th
Numbers Exchanged: 0 Boyfriends: Still None.
And on the 7th day, he rested. That may have been fine and well for God, but he was not a single woman on a 48 day turn around - or was he/she? Whether or not God is/was/could be a tranny isn't what's important here because the clock is ticking. Yes, look out world, I'm really going to do this - one sweaty stranger at a time; and so I didn't take Sunday Funday and instead went where no woman has ever willingly gone before: Giants Stadium.
Where better to meet a man than in a place that holds 20,000 of them? It's like a Costco for testosterone, but instead of miniature food items at the end of every isle, this Costco seems to just sell one: beer. I don't know what made me think that combining two things I dislike (New Jersey, and men in spandex) would somehow lead to anything other than my being in a place I dislike (New Jersey) watching things I don't care about (men in spandex). In this case, two negatives do not make a positive. I will say however that I got a very nice hat,... now if the Giants could get their shit together, maybe I wouldn't be harassed when I try to wear it. Seriously, even my very gay friend stopped me from putting it on; "however bad your hair may be - that hat right now is worse" - he was probably simply referring to the blaring royal blue but when even the gays are making fun of you for sucking,.... thats the pot calling the kettle black, no?
But off to the Garden state I went, in hopes of a touchdown - some for Big Blue, at least one for me. First Stop? "Tailgating" aka drinking coors light out of a trunk - know how I'll find the perfect mate? Scan the scene for the one man who looks miserable, he and I will get along well. It wasn't until I arrived at the event space (parking lot B) that I realized my view of tailgating may have been biased. What I thought would be a styrofoam cooler and ice, was a 60 person soiree, with tent, complete with chicken wings, actual liquor, and london broil, for a wall street firm of one of my dads friends. Clearly bail out money is going to the right place, but as the lamb chops were really good - I'm not complaining. The men were cute, but the men were married. For the one's that weren't? Let's just say slim pickings, and when there is a stadium full of potential suiters, I'm not just going to settle for some suit. There was one cute, young guy but of course he was from Atlanta: geographically undesirable, and so I hoofed it to the next geographical location I found undesirable; the stadium.
At the stadium, my seat is adjacent to that of a lone stranger named Nick. Clean cut, introduces himself, flirtatious and dumb as rocks. It wasn't until the fifth time he stood up to yell and start a "yankees" cheer (mind you the World Series was over a week ago) that I noticed the drool. As dumb as he was, he was at least ten times drunker. It was in that moment that I looked around the stadium again, and something became as blindingly clear as the blue of my NY Giants hat - tailgating is not a social event, tailgating is plain and simply to get as drunk as humanly possible so that you can buy as few $9 stadium beers as humanly possible - I missed this memo. This is a major flaw in my plan, major. In an instant, I went from walking into thousands of straight men to choose from to walking into the equivalent of every derelict in the world at what could have very well been 2 in the morning. Where's the choice in that? Which incoherent slob in a jersey for team they don't play for am I going to make nice with while they deafen you with screams of trying to coach the team from the stands. Check please.
A loss for me. A loss for the Giants. A huge loss of respect for literal man kind. Luckily, they were selling beer.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
And we're off...
If there were ever to be a firework start ceremony to a game like the one I'm about to play, what happened on the corner of 28th and Madison Avenue would be it. There I am outside the Hair Party 24, fresh from fighting with the Asian cashier who really did try to price gauge me on conditioner. (There may be more than what you see in the land of men, but when it comes to that of printed price-tags - what you see, I want 20% off of) Anyway, red in the face I barrel out with my haircare to what seems to be no cabs for miles; and enter Nick. Tall, brown hair, with bike - you can't win them all. We catch eyes as I'm trying to catch a cab and he literally stops to pay me a compliment and to tell me he thinks I'm very beautiful. My immediate instinct is to scan the air for scents of alcohol and with none detected bike boy has made me speechless. He then manages to even outdo himself - he goes further and asks if he can take me to dinner. Are you kidding me? You tell me I'm beautiful and then you want to feed me? I'm in.
We exchange numbers and serendipitously a free cab appears giving my exit flawless timing, which is so unlike my clumsy self that even I begin to question a higher power, when my phone rings. It is one of my closest friends (who you will come to know as PLC) inviting me to one of his favorite bars, and as PLC is the type of guy any girl would be lucky to meet, starting at a place he likes seems logical, no? But as always, there is a catch. I am wearing the same clothing I was all day,... to a meeting, walking in the park - to put it bluntly, when you're on a 48 day turn around is not the time to wear daytime heels and an over-sized sweater to a hot and trendy bar. However, If I schlep crosstown and revamp myself by the time my newly dressed ass sees Chinatown, there will be a line at said hot and trendy bar that could take longer than a trip to actual China. Go to bar and introduce its patrons to Grandma, or come as self and risk introducing myself to no one. Wait a second! A man just stopped dead in his tracks to pay respects to my daytime heels and over-sized sweater - okay he was on a bike, maybe he just likes exercise - I live in a walk up, I can be down with that; and so treating my interaction with Nick as my survivor immunity for the night; because if all else fails, at least that happened - and how much more can a girl really ask for? We are going to Chinatown!
Leave it to Chinatown to have street names that all sort of sound the same, and I get left on a corner that needless to say, is not my destination. Luckily, my daytime heels were made for walking and off I go in search of Apotheke, the hot new Chinatown speakeasy - one of those bars you wouldn't know was a bar unless you were "in the know" or saw the bouncer and red carpet outside the door. Turning lemons into lemonade, I see my walk as a opportunity to pass any open drug store to at least put some makeup on. After passing nothing but restaurants and Off Track Betting locations, I realized that would not be in the cards tonight, and if I were to meet anyone from this point forward they're likely to be either drunk, or blind. Just when I get to the corner I had tried to reach via 4 wheeled transportation, a man with more legs than teeth muttered something in my direction which I can only interpret as complimentary and my confidence is now restored. That is until I arrive at the not so hidden dragon of a bar. There's a small line, but my friends are inside, and I'm one girl, alone... you'd think that would be just a welcome from the bouncer - but no. I don't want to be the one to brag here, but bikers and bums really like me! Instantaneously I am sort of regretting my outfit, or lack there of, decision; 2 bummy steps forward, and I am now 10 scantily clad people back.
Once inside, Apotheke is cool, great music, greater looking DJ and hosts a crowd of 20 somethings in a dark and very hot room. I get the whole 'speakeasy', prohibition-esque theme... but I do think that AC, or at least fans, may have been invented by the 1920's - and dimmers I know were around. I do one visual lap around the room, eh. People are sweaty, lets not even get to me and the sweater, and it is high time for a drink. After scanning the menu, I find solace in knowing that there was in fact another grandma at the bar; Dr. Ruth; a drink comprised of rosemary infused vodka, strawberries, lime and Rose champagne. Listed under the 'aphrodisiac' portion of the menu (which also included "stimulants" and other titles that I assumed were simply for show), I take my chances and hedge my bets that a drink named after an 80 year old woman wouldn't get the better of me.
I was wrong.
After 2 sessions with the MD, the room got a lot more attractive. There was Ken, who quite frankly even 2 Dr. Ruth's couldn't help - however he was your typical Asian wall street guy, who had facial hair - which is not something you see everyday, which I think is how the conversation lasted as long as it did. Then there were a few other randoms that aren't even worth mention.
As Ruth and I still had some more to talk about, I had another and my friends friends arrived. Three boys, whose accents I couldn't honestly place, but 2 of three were quite cute! PLC had warned me that one of his friends that was coming he thought I would like... I'm still not sure which one he thought I'd hit it off with but once they arrived, the only thing we were all hitting was the bar. ** note to future self: this is definitely not the way to get a boyfriend **
After some group therapy? I am against a wall, in a corner, making out with said accent I couldn't place, that either because of the speaker behind me, or his lack of grasp on the English language, I couldn't understand a word he said. Not a problem though, there wasn't much talking. Even I write this, I'm embarrassed - therapist should come with a return policy. He was really nice and even in daylight, attractive... I am just so not "that girl".
By the time I came to, my friends left me, the clock has struck 1:30, and like someone whose at risk of turning into a pumpkin - I rush to go meet my "roommate", Boy George... my pet rabbit. (Seriously, I have a bunny... that wasn't a masturbation pun)
The Final Verdict? Day 1, not a complete failure, but overall, I should stick to street corners.
