Surprise Switzerland Edition

I’ve always thought “paying for friends” was a silly criticism of joining a sorority or fraternity. The University of Florida has something like 50,000 undergrads. Please tell me all the ways in which it’s a bad idea to try and bring that down to a less daunting size at the age of 18, having come from a small, private school where classrooms totaled about 15 or so students. Plus, for most of us, it was the only thing we paid for thanks to Florida Bright Futures and Florida Pre-Paid. Sure, I guess we also paid for parking tickets and boot removal once the number of tickets piled high enough and the occasional $90 fee - a huge sum of money at the time - to get your car out of a tow yard when you blatantly parked in tow away zones because you couldn’t conceive of walking a distance that seems like mere steps after 13 years of New York-living, and you had that sense of entitlement only the 18 to 24-year old crowd truly can. OK, so looking back, along with my friends, we could have sponsored a scholarship program with what we paid in parking-related incidents over 4+ years. Oh my god, someone give her an Adderall stat!

My point it was a good investment. I really, really liked some of those bozos. Still do. And when I set out on my first, real solo travel adventure as a proper adult, I decided to buy a friend in the form of a ski instructor for three of my four days on the slopes. (He was unavailable the last day on account of needing to jaunt over to France and purchase a motorbike?)

I figured it was a good investment not only in terms of companionship, but also death prevention. The Alps have a different classification system for their runs, or pistes as they call them. In many cases, they’re longer, faster and harder than what I’m accustom to in Colorado. It’s not lost on me that there’s a Freudian slip somewhere in there. And Vermont doesn’t count. (Sorry!... not really... East Coast skiing is trash.)

Anyhow, I was right. Harry was British, impossibly charming and a phenomenal coach. I skied better, smarter and faster than I ever have in my life. Without him, I would have either been less adventurous and/or missed a hairpin turn, fallen off the side of the mountain and died in the valley of the shadow of the Matterhorn. If you’re going to buy the farm, it’s not a bad place…  Ma! The Adderall. Fuck! Oh, also, Harry is a surf instructor in the summer and his parents own a vineyard in the south of France. Describe a more attractive combo. I’ll wait.  

If you can believe it or if you’re even still following, this is probably a good time to mention that this story isn’t about Harry and me. Please. This isn’t a Disney movie and my life isn’t that enchanted.

Friday night in Zermatt, I went out to a place called Brown Cow. They have a menu that doesn’t involve fondue, a smell you’ll wear the rest of the night, but it doesn’t matter because it savages your stomach and you have to go directly home upon settling the bill. They also have Aperol Spritzes that only cost $9.50chf and a big, wrap-around bar which is great for dining out solo. While I sat and ate and drank, I noticed a guy sitting catty-cornered from me who was staring and half smiling every time I looked up and around the bar. He was cute, but he never came over and introduced himself when the seats next to me were occasionally up for grabs over the course of my dinner and drinks.

No big deal. I was satisfied with the evening so far and ready to move on to Gees, so I asked the bartender for my check. He walked back over and he told me, “The gentleman over there would like to pay for your dinner.” Ummm, OK, the last time that happened I think I was 21-years old on spring break in Lake Tahoe, watching March Madness with three of my best bozos, and it was less that someone bought our dinners, but sent us a tray of shots.  Probably because they wanted to get in our (much more forgiving at the time) ski pants. It probably worked, too. What?

I walked around the bar to thank the man and en route, the universe for the ego boost. Ricky was also flying solo, but as it turned out, only because his friends had severe altitude sickness. They were visiting from Scotland, so I understood maybe like 70% of what he was saying, tops. When I told him the gesture was appreciated, but not necessary, he answered back, “well, you were sitting there alone.” It took every fiber of my fiercely independent, feminist being to not take his ginormous beer and throw it in his face while shouting, “I was sitting alone because I chose to, motherfucker!” Plan B was to smile and tell him I was on a solo trip. He thought that was super cool and asked why I chose the Alps. I said I really wanted to ski and I really didn’t want to see anyone in a distinct, red trucker hat, so I flew across the pond.

As an aside, I thought that would be glaringly obvious to anyone who asked. As it were, “the screaming carrot demon in charge of the United States is ruining the country and my life” isn’t everyone’s immediate thought as to why an American might find herself in the Swiss Alps. Weird.

While we sat there talking and having another drink, now together, a few things became apparent to me. First, Ricky was pretty darn drunk – much more so than me, and I’d been drinking since my first A-Spritz at 2:30p with Harry. Adorable Harry... Second, I would not be making a night of it with my new, Scottish friend. I wasn’t feeling it. And lastly, I needed an escape plan because Ricky clearly thought otherwise.

When he excused himself to the bathroom, I grabbed my phone and made a point of being glued to it as he returned. He’d left his phone and some money out on the bar and asked me if I was going to let someone walk off with all of it. There’s my opening, I thought. I’m going to have to sacrifice the fancy cocktail bar, but I have an out! I apologized and said I hadn’t noticed any of it sitting there, but, well, you know how bad we Americans are at vacationing and I was just catching up on some work emails as it’s only about 5p in New York... and unfortunately, it looks like I need to go send something off to a client in the next hour. Fake harrumph! 

As he paid for all of this, I became even more confident in my decision because lordy, was this man drunk! He gave the bartender a laughably big tip and it wasn't because he was feeling particularly generous. He was having trouble counting his Swiss francs. I asked him where he was staying and he pointed in a direction the was opposite of my hotel. I mistakenly thought that was great, forgetting how literal I can be. The direction someone points in this state is meaningless.

We walked outside and because part of every day must involve pushing a rock up a hill, turned in the exact same direction. I crossed my arms like our president does when he threatens war with North Korea. I’d previously thought this to be a universal sign for “this isn’t happening,” in romantic encounters, but I suppose now also includes, “I don’t know WTF I’m talking about à nuclear winter!” As we continued to walk in the same direction, I got a little panicked we were, in fact, at the same hotel. He was talking about his hotel had a heated pool on the bottom floor. Mine did, too. I didn’t want this man to know where I was staying, much less what floor I was on! Visions of a drunk Scott knocking on my door opened me up to a phenomenon I like to call waking, walking night terrors.

It was at this point where I cut him off and said, “oh look, there’s the sports shop – that’s where I need to turn!” For reference, there’s some sort of sports and/or rental shop every 10ft or so in Zermatt. As I trotted down the side street, arms still crossed, I added, “Ok, well, thanks again for dinner! Enjoy your trip! Bye!” I wasn’t sure I was totally in the clear because all these streets sort of meet back up, so for good measure, I ran down a railroad track to a little passageway, all the way down to and across the river and then up another hill. What better time than the present to go check out the lobby of a nice hotel you pass every day on the way home from skiing?!

Once I was safely in the confines of my own hotel room, sans any signs of the drunk Scot, I actually did send a presentation to one of my clients. I’m not a total liar. Overall, however, a bit of a swing and a miss on a Friday night. But that’s OK. While ski season might be winding down, summer is just around the corner and I hear Portugal is an excellent place to learn how to surf. I might even need to book a lesson.

So Good To Hear From You!

If you come at me for the first time in almost a year and expect me to 1, know who the F you are and 2, be excited you've decided to grace me with your presence, you're blowin' up the wrong dress, bruh. Also not totally putting my foot down on this one yet, but if you're not going to respond to a Will & Grace gif/reference, my inclination is to tell you to beat it. 

Anyhow, I've missed this. More to come soon.  

I SENT YOU A ROOSTER! The Story of Ghost Nerd

I sent you a rooster, Nerd. Do you know what that means?! It means I carried a watermelon. I. CARRIED. A. WA-TER-MEL-ON. You asshat.

And now, a little context. I was seeing a nerd. His name is Charlie. Charlie, the nerd. If the opportunity presents itself, you have to date someone named Charlie. It’s too cute not to. That’s a fact. However, just because you find yourself unexpectedly dating a nerd does not mean you get a Hollywood ending. I did not.

When Charlie first reached out, he seemed sweet enough. He sent me a charm on Happn which, for those of you not in the know, 1, I hate you, and 2, it means we crossed paths and I didn’t click "like" his on his profile in a time he thought to be reasonable. Upon receipt of the charm, I checked out his profile and saw he is a consultant who looked nice, is very well educated, well traveled and well dressed. And again, his name is Charlie, which is undeniably adorable. I clicked the heart button. We chatted and he asked me out fairly quickly, for that same night of whatever day it was at the time.

As a rule, I tend to not accept last minute dates. I like to send the idea I’ve already got plans. Also, I generally already do have plans. For me, serious no-I-can’t-meet-you-tonight plans could mean anything from another date to friends to clients to SoulCycle to my DVR. Sorry, Charlie. I never actually said that to him – what a missed opportunity.

The best part of this story is honestly at the end, but I’m going to briefly take you through every date we went on because I think you need the legwork to fully appreciate turn the fifth and final date took.

We planned to meet the next week and he offered to come to Dumbo. Win. He told me his knowledge of Dumbo bars was limited to Pedro’s and Superfine. Pedro’s is GREAT if you’re barreling through Brooklyn on a bike on 5boro Sunday, proudly riding for the Life is Priceless Foundation. Otherwise, pass.  Superfine is… just fine. I suggested we go to Atrium, which kicked off him calling me fancy, in a way I don’t necessarily think was meant to be flattering, for the duration of us seeing one another. I’m 34 and I like adult drinks in adult places vs. bars that smell like bleach and barf. I don’t think that makes me fancy.

We had fun on the date and he seemed like the kind of person I could potentially hang out with. I say this because a large part of our conversation centered on his recent, that-escalated-quickly, Sunday Funday. Another large part centered on going to the dentist, which he interrupted and said, “Oh my god are we really talking about the dentist,” sending us both into a fit of laughter. He walked me home and we made out like teenagers in the back of a movie theater. I was on the fence, but I have a lot of friends in Dumbo, two of whom have a direct line of sight out of their living room to where this was going down, so when he asked if we could go get a night cap, I said yes, emphatically. It was Monday after all; it wasn’t a stretch that they’d be both home and up.

Date two was Friday of the same week at Dram in Williamsburg, which was cute. I was in a very real place of struggle from having been out every single night that week, in particular the aggressive night before at the NYAC with a complete lunatic who turned out to be a raging anti-semite, but that is a [great/unbelievable] story for my next post. Finally, around midnight, he looked at me and said, “You’re dying, aren’t you?” I told him I was, that media people rarely go out on Friday nights and we certainly don’t start our nights at 9:00pm. If we go out on a Friday, we do, as my friend Paul would say, “Golden Girl get after it,” allowing us to go to bed at the same time any given assisted living facility would encourage their residents to do the same.

The following Friday, I thought for sure date three would be our last. He asked me to come meet him at Post Office in Billyburg, but it was packed and we walked all the way to Roebling Tea Room. I was annoyed. I was in one really expensive shoe and my stupid walking cast. On every level, it hurt to walk that far. Make a damn reservation! Anyhow, our final destination turned out to be a good one. I had somewhere in the neighborhood of five to 43 French 75s, which is generally why I thought this date would be our last. At one point, I think I slipped into a brief coma and had a night terror because I came to mumbling something about a toddler. Out. Loud. Who does that? At the end of the night, I pulled the fake reaching for my wallet move and he actually allowed me to pay, which I didn’t love, but also he didn’t have eight bottles of gin and champers worth of French 75s. I got an uber home and he came with me, saying he’d take the subway back to the East Village from Dumbo. This makes no geographical sense from Williamsburg for a person who lives in Stuy Town. A gentleman suitor is more than welcome to share my cab, but I wasn’t born yesterday and you’re not coming up. I was proud of my blackout self.

Date four came up unexpectedly for me, when he called me on Sunday and asked me to meet him and his friend out at Coyote Ugly. Yes, you read that correctly. We went to Coyote Ugly. It also came with him promising me the two of us would go somewhere I wouldn’t hate after a couple drinks with the group. I broke my last minute rule, but I was intrigued by the early friend intro. I dropped my shopping bags off at home, changed my clothes to something that would have still been considered loud on a Friday night out in Soho and met them at what can only be described as an atrocity of a bar no one would miss if they lost their lease. If I never go back, it will be too soon.

The friend turned out not to be the bromance I expected, but a close-talking chick, who was both drunk and clearly in love with Charlie. I ordered a Makers on the rocks while they drank PBR and cozied up to him as she explained to me no less than six separate times that she was from Indiana and John Cougar Mellencamp is a way of life there. Great, can we go yet or what? She bought my drink. It was weird. Charlie and I finally left and got a corner booth at a bar somewhere on 1^st or A that was quite charming. I think he was kind of drunk this time because he went into this long, drawn out story about how he got out of Colombia grad school at the height of the recession and it was a struggle for a while and he doesn’t work for one of the major companies like Bain or McKinsey. Umm, ok, I sell mobile ads. I’m not exactly matching the net worth of Zukerberg, bro. It was around the same time he mentioned I was the only person he was currently seeing, which made me feel markedly uncomfortable. I suggested we wrap it up. As the hour was nearing 11:00pm on a Sunday, that seemed reasonable enough. He thanked me profusely for coming out to meet him and continued to do so long after I’d hopped in a cab to go home. I was still on the fence.

Thanksgiving, a weekend in Atlanta for the SEC championship game and a trip home to Florida occupied the next three weekends, so there was a decent gap in seeing each other before date five. He once again suggested a place in Dumbo, which is fine by me, but he got over there sooner than expected and I’d just poured a delicious glass of wine I wanted to drink. I said come up, have a drink with me and we’ll go out after that. We never went back out. We had a really fun night in my apartment, talking and laughing our faces off with the aid of way too much red wine. I thought, I could maybe like this guy.

We both fell asleep on my shitty couch. I woke up somewhere around 1:45am and moved us to my bed. This may cross a line of TMI, but it’s worth noting that I have not had the sex since August of 2014 (AUGUST OF THE YEAR OF OUR LORD TWO THOUSAND AND FOURTEEN,) when I was seeing a certain Israeli gentleman. I assumed this was finally about to change, but we sort of just made out and went back to sleep. Rather, he went back to sleep and started snoring something fierce. I tried to wake him up a few times and get him to sleep on his side or stomach, but no dice. Being on his side only meant that he had his arm around me, sawing trees directly into my ear. I slipped out of bed, closed the door to my room and slept on the couch, where he retrieved me the next morning.

This is the part where we end my dry spell, right? It’s got to be. Welllllll, not exactly. Did we fool around a little? Sure. Did it end with sex? Nope! It sure didn’t! I gave him an opening, too. You know what it did culminate in? Charlie. Dry. Humping. Me. Who does that?! Given the position we were in, what warm blooded male doesn’t take advantage of the opportunity at hand?! I was lying there with my conscious floating above my own body. Seriously?! Is this real life? A year and a half and this sweet guy, who seems to like me, with whom I’ve been out five times, is just going to lie here in my bed and dry hump me?! What alternate universe have I entered? And whyyyyyyyyy????

Charlie left the next morning to go back home to Buffalo for xmas, followed immediately by a New Years ski trip to the Swiss Alps. I was set to depart a few days later for a 12-day Florida bender between Jacksonville, Key West and Miami. The point is we weren’t going to see each other for a while, but even with the great dry humping incident of 2015, there really wasn’t anything that led me to believe it was the last time I’d see him. I thought for sure, next time he’d go in for the real thing… because ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby. Or so I’ve been told. It’s been so long at this point, I’ve sort of forgotten. We chit chatted intermittently and the last thing he said to me before leaving for Switzerland, in reference to me going to Key West was, “Say hi to the roosters for me.” This was December 27^th. I didn’t answer him.

On January 5^th, after looking him up on Happn and seeing he was back in town and active on the app (he hadn’t been previously,) I was flabbergasted. The nerd had turned into Ghost Nerd. You can ghost me. You can dry hump me (if you must.) You cannot do both. With a little encouragement from one of my favorite coconspirators, I decided to respond to his last text with a picture of a Key West rooster and a note saying, “This one says hi back.” Nothing.  I sent him a rooster and not a goddamn thing. Fucking ghost nerd.

I passed along this update to a few of my friends who knew about Charlie. As is typical of great friends, their reaction was mostly the same: “fuck that nerd,” they said. I told them all I would have, but he only wanted to dry hump me.

SEX PARTIES

I’m going to go ahead and let you down (read: relieve) you right now and let you know that what follows is not a report of my personal sex party experience. In fact, I’m in a dry spell that has gone on for so long I’m basically on the way to the nunnery. As it were, epic disinterest in all of the men you’re dating directly affects the amount of action you see. So, whatever you think constitutes a blockbuster dry spell, just double or quadruple it and that’s where you’ll find me. Since I’m not getting any, I thought I’d talk about people who are… in spades. I saw a real opening to expand on something for which I have absolutely zero frame of reference: Sex Parties.

On a sunny Saturday in Fort Mason Park, catching up with girlfriends over a nearly lethal amount of champagne, the subject came up. A friend of a friend apparently attends these "sexy" soirees on the regs and has become so comfortable with doing so that she will, on occasion, casually invite her friends (and, in this case, their siblings – eeek!) to go with her. She quite enjoys them. Good for her. Get your kicks however you can, I guess.

We had to revisit the subject the next day while picnicking in the Presidio because we were out of our minds wine drunk the first time we heard this story. And I don’t mean to position it as any sort of point of pride. It’s just a necessary part of accurately describing our state of being. 

We woke up Sunday serving time for the mistakes of the previous day, took a case of Diet Coke to the roof, sort of looked at each other funny and had one of those “am I on glue or were we told that so and so regularly attends sex parties in New York?” moments. We were not on glue, but I’m not sure it would have made much a difference for me at that point. We began to remember, among other things, being told details of mountable dildo machines controlled by your partner du jour. They are apparently wrapped in cellophane, which is changed before a new partygoer saddles up. Honestly, it was not unlike the recounting of the whole “there were horses, a man on fire and Brick stabbed a man in the heart with a trident” fight scene in Anchorman, except the setting was like a bizarre, sexual Johnny Utah’s. Is this what happens at Johnny Utah's if you do a full venue rental? 

Our fascination with sex parties had two real highlights and a great deal of questions.  First, we couldn’t not picture the dildo thing as a mechanical sex bull and we discussed this at length in an uber across town. Upon exiting, the driver – a middle aged white man on the larger side of the spectrum – turned around to us and said, “Enjoy the bull, ladies!” I lost my mind laughing. I live for shit like that. Second, when we met up with everyone at the Presidio, a place where there were equal parts families and fellow degenerate 20-30 somethings, two of the people joining us were essentially on a first date and another two, a pregnant couple I’d never met. That did not stop us from diving right back in.

Afterwards, I’d noticed our friend’s date didn’t have a lot to say about sex parties. My friend turned to me and said (screamed,) “What would you have done if someone who just flew across the country to stay with you for the first time casually drops that she grabbed a bottle of champagne and showed up to a BYOB sex party with her sister, only to be turned away for not being on some list!” Fair point. Fair point that keeps making me laugh out loud by myself each and every time I think about it.

The following is a list of the top 25 questions we have about sex parties. I entered this into the Notes on my iPhone under “Sex Party Questions:” as if anyone would read these questions and have any doubt in their mind about the subject.

1. How do you find out about Sex Parties?
2. Does someone invite you… like a book or supper club?
3. How are they hosted? If you go to one, do you then have to host the next one?
4. When it comes to the mechanical sex bull (Sexual Johnny Utah’s for you NYers) does it have to be cellophane or does your average saran wrap to the trick
5. Who is the person who changes the cellophane? How do get saddled with (get it!) this requirement? We assumed tin foil is out because ouch.
6. What is the layout like? Private rooms? Couches everywhere? Where do you have the sex?
7. Hotness factor. Do you want to be the hottest one there? Who gets the fugs?
8. What is the age restriction and/or requirement?
9. What happens if you want to say NO to someone or something? Is it a total place of yes? Like improv or a Weight Watchers meeting?
10. Is there any sort of payment process? Who pays for the mechanical sex bull and the near-deadly amount of drinks it would take for most people to think this is a good idea?
11. How do you know when a sex part ends? Do you hang out after you have sex with someone? Are there after parties (Spoiler: we found out that yes, there are after parties and sometimes, naked yoga. You cannot make this shit up.)
12. Are there goodie bags? (aside from, I have to imagine, an Rx for herpes medication)
13. Is there a dress code? Are there theme nights for dress and/or kind of sex?
14. What is the protection situation and/or screening process?
15. Are there gonna be snacks?
16. Is this a weekend or weeknight thing? Or both? Are sex parties always just happening?
17. How are you not terrified of someone snapping a pic of people slapping D’s across your face?
18. Is it like fight club in that you don’t talk about it? (It’s clearly not like fight club.)
19. Does every party have some sort of mechanical sex ride?
20. Do you have more than one partner each night?
21. Bathroom etiquette?
22. Are these people in a relationship or is this what you do when you’re not in a relationship?
23. If you’re into this and want to strike out on your own, how does one start a sex party?
24. Is “sex party” really just a euphemism for an orgy?
25. And finally, is there a black market for all the leftover underwear? I bet there is. People are weird. And will buy anything.

Now, this is sort of an anticlimactic ending, but basically being celibate combined with having never attended (or been invited to!) a sex party leaves me with little other choice in the matter. I do, however, welcome insight into this fascinating underworld as well as additional questions we might have missed. Let’s get weird. 

The Stars at Night are Big and Bright

(clap clap clap clap) 

I was chatting about possible memoir titles, heavily influenced by failed relationships with a former, and failed, relationship of my own. After throwing out, Help Me Officer, New Jersey is Trying to Kill me and Garden Stank, he landed on Whiskey, Texas Football, Women From New Jersey and Other Things I love That Damn Near Killed Me. While somewhat verbose for a title, you can see how it would really allow him to tell a story.

As my current most recent and still somewhat raw relationship hadn’t completely fallen apart at the time this conversation took place, I didn’t go much further than If You’re Reading This, Then You Already Know; I’ve Died Alone With Cats – The Story of Jennifer Mickler’s Life in New York. Now that it has turned into a total turdburger of relationships past, I suppose I could try to incorporate hacking or the IDF into the title, but a way to find humor in those things/most things escapes me at the moment. That’s a story for another time. 

Back to the first failed relationship mentioned today. He and I have clearly remained cordial. While we discussed ending things with people we really, really liked (well, technically, he used the word love. I did not.) I asked him if I could write the story of us. Because really, it’s pretty funny. I promised not to call him out by name, but then he asked if he could respond. Soooo… we good here. 

I was introduced to him through a mutual friend who was, at the time, living in Atlanta and dating his best friend from University of Texas at Austin. She essentially said something to the effect of, “you two are lunatics, like bourbon and live in New York. You should meet.”

The first time we met in person was September 11, 2010. I don’t call out the date because we, as New Yorkers, were doing something profound in remembrance of that horrible day. We weren’t. Don’t get me wrong; I started the day lying in bed, sobbing through the names and moments of silence just like I always do. That said, I just remember it because he met me at the Florida Gators bar, Gin Mill, where Casey and I had been for the better part of life since birth the afternoon, watching football. Sort of. And getting hammered with NY’s Finest and Bravest in their dress uniforms. 

Have you had a moment taking in the glow of drunken youth? Good. Moving on… That day was a fairly good indication of our subsequent encounters over the course of the next almost year, which brings me to when we started dating*

To celebrate my 30^th birthday, I rented a bright pink party bus equipped with stripper poles, gathered 30 of my closest friends, some of whom flew in for the occasion (yes, I am THAT well loved) ((or, at least, I was at the time)) and had it take us to a couple of the finest vineyards La Isla Long has to offer. It was magical. There were animal masks, a lesbian wedding, no food or water and all the wine. What could go wrong?

Sometime on the way back to Mannahatta, as a bus full of very white people blasted

DMX, he and I started to make out like middle schoolers in the back of a movie. I’m sure it was special for everyone around us. Also, I’m certain they were too drunk to notice. I say that because when the bus dropped us off at the Brother Jimmy’s in Murray Hill (THE BROTHER JIMMYS IN MURRAY HILL,) half of our group was immediately kicked out. Not having any idea where my friends were (some were still at Bro J’s,) we eventually decided it was time to get the check and go. We asked for the bill and the bartender looked at us and said, “You guys haven’t even ordered anything yet!” We’d just been making out. At the bar. Nice. 

A year after our initial in-person meeting, we drove up to West Point to catch a football game. If you haven’t done that before, get on it. There’s truly nothing more gorgeous than that area of NY in the fall and the West Point campus itself. Quick sidebar – I very seriously considered applying there when I was in prep school. I know that seems impossible given the stories I use this forum to tell, but it’s the truth. I was Susie Q High School, working for Tillie Fowler through my stacked free periods, before going back to run track practice and thought West Point would be a good foundation for a life spent in international relations. I now work in ad sales, an equally noble pursuit. 

One of my dearest friends from prep school, who actually attended and graduated from West Point, told us there was a bar somewhere on campus where we could get drinks post game. I’m pretty sure that to this day he’s still forgotten to tell me, “just kidding.” Or maybe he was conducting a social experiment. Anyhow, we got lost in a way that redefines what it means to be lost. If you’re going to be lost, West Point is a outstanding place do to so. It’s highly preferable to, say, Newark, NJ, but we ended up walking so long and so far that my shoe literally broke in half. I was less than amused.

Sometime around what seemed like the actual end of days, we found the car and headed back to the city. In 2011, you still couldn’t purchase Shiner Bock in NYC. If you’re a native Texan, this is apparently a huge problem. For me, if it’s not an IPA or Saison Dupont enjoyed while bellied up to the bar at Spotted Pig, it all tastes like Bud Light. My point is we drove to every goddamn store in and around Paramus, NJ to see if they happened to sell it. One of the stores that somehow made it into his consideration set – no joke – was a Korean supermarket whose seafood section was so emotionally scarring, it still triggers my gag reflex. I was like DO YOU HONESTLY THINK THEY HAVE FUCKING SHINER HERE?! And he was all, we better just check. And I was all, I’ll kill you in your sleep tonight.

We continued to hang out for another month or so. Not until things went south did I look back and realize it was just that the whole time: hanging out. And sometimes, sex. *We weren’t really dating. Whatever.

In mid October, we were at an Advertising Week event put on by MOTH where people had cocktails and got up on stage to tell the story of their worst day in advertising. If only I’d completed my Maker Studios servitude at that point, I would have rocked that mic all night long. So many worst days to choose from there.

After he told his story, we were standing at the bar – BB King’s Jazz Gong Show on 42^nd St in Times Square – "enjoying" bottom shelf bourbon and chatting about the upcoming weekend. He asked what I was doing Sunday. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but I think it was something along the lines of, “what the actual fuck is up with being relegated to the Sunday day date?” He looked at me and said, “I can’t be your boyfriend,” which quickly sent me to an angry/hysterical place of “UGH, fucking waste of time!”

I decided the best course of action would be to storm out of BB King’s Jazz Gong Show on 42^nd St in Times Square. I did just that… straight up the wrong staircase… that led to the balcony level of the bar… and basically put me on display for everyone there. Thank you, universe, for that extra kick in the vagina. Nothing diminishes the effect of storming out like marching up the wrong staircase. With a mantra of every curse word out there on loop in my head, I walked back down the wrong stairwell, through the bar and up the proper stairs out to 42^nd Street.

That has to be a low point, right? It has to be. Please, I can’t believe that it gets worse than getting dumped in Times Square by your friend. The only thing that kept me from walking straight into traffic that night was the glacial pace at which it was moving. I instead went for cigarettes and a frenzied “what am I doing wrong?” call to my mother, where she assured me, for the 188395823957824^th time it would all be OK. And it is. I lived to survive another date and pour another bourbon.