Based on nothing, I tend to not enter a guy's name into my phone until the 3rd or 4th date. My feeling is why bother if this person is not going to be a part of my life. If I have a million extra names in this phone, it's just going to take even longer for AT&T to transfer my contacts next time I drop and shatter my phone at Yankee Stadium, subsequently signing up for yet another two-year contract in order to continue communicating with these weirdos who, for the most part, I don't even like. We've all been there; it's not the good service keeping us around. Wait, what was I even talking about?
About a month or so ago, I was texting with this guy who I thought last minute canceled on me midway through my own "but I don't wanna go out with anyone right now" tantrum. Again, I thought it was this same gentleman with whom I later rescheduled to meet after work on some Thursday. In my head, this was all building up to a first date. Early in the afternoon that Thursday, this guy I thought was Chris, the management consultant, texted me saying he would be stuck at work and would I be up for meeting around 10:00 instead of 8:00? I mostly prefer to go to bed by the time the Daily Show comes on and get up a little after 5:00am, so in addition to being way too much work for what I thought was a first date, I had no interest in being out late. I suggested we day drink bloodys at some point over the weekend instead. He agreed.
Saturday rolled around and I was the first one to arrive at Sarabeth's in Tribeca. You could find me awkwardly standing around the bar, texting with my friends who were down the street, asserting no, they cannot come spy on my date, but I'll see them in an hour. While I was staring out the window for management consultant Chris, in walks Napa Kevin, a guy I'd been out with a couple times, but hadn't heard from in a while. Or so I thought.
While I bolted over to the corner and cowered in the middle of a group of strangers waiting on their table, my inner monologue went something like this: "OH MY GOD HOLY FUCK WHY WHY WHY WHY IS THIS HAPPENING OH MY GOD I KNOW HE AND HIS DATE ARE GOING TO BE SITTING DIRECTLY NEXT TO ME OH MY GOD FUCK FUCK I'M JUST GOING TO HAVE TO RUN OUT OF THIS PLACE AND NEVER SEE EITHER OF THEM AGAIN OH MY GOD... OH... MY... GOD... WHY... IS... HE... COMING... OVER... HERE?!??!?!?!"
Napa Kevin walked over to get me, asked how I was doing, inquired as to what exactly I was doing and apologized for being late. Now, at this point, though I didn't particularly understand why considering what he just said/did, I still thought I was about to sit down to brunch with the wrong date. So, as he lead me over to the table, I stopped and looked out the door, I suppose as some sort of last ditch effort to see if management consultant Chris was walking in? I didn't really have an action plan beyond that. Kevin asked me if I was OK. I said I needed a mimosa.
Napa Kevin played football in college and is still built like a linebacker. He finished his brunch in about 43 seconds while I nervously picked at mine, waiting for some disaster to unfold and ordered more mimosas. He asked me if I was sure I didn't mind having a few drinks in the middle of the day on a Saturday. Internally, I thought, well, I guess I'm happy I don't come off as a boozebag? Anyhow, I assured Napa a little sparkling wine and OJ had nothing on the lunacy waiting down the street for me at MaryAnn's. In the end, it was sort of a lovely date; we walked around the waterfront in Battery Park and back over to PaulandJanicePalooza where, taking another year off my life, he kissed me goodbye in front of the bar where all my friends were already celebrating birthdays and babies.
Napa was a potential good egg. We'd do fun things like start off with fancy drinks (I'm forever a sucker for a $20 glass of wine) and then go shoot darts at a pool hall all dressed up. Being that he was a good time and seemingly normal, it didn't work out. His suggestions morphed into "want to meet at the bar downstairs from my apartment?" and "want to just come over and watch the NBA playoffs over at my place?" Oh, Napa Kevin, I might not have gone to Harvard Law like you, but I wasn't born yesterday either. Womp womp. Oh well. I'll be forever grateful that next time I show up to the bar first, I know the guy who walks in after telling me, "Almost there! Sorry I'm late!" is actually the gentleman I'm there to meet.
Stay tuned for Ice Capades, Part: 2.
Vennifer
PS - if you find this funny, entertaining or just plain sad, please feel free to pass it along to everyone you know and their brother... and sister... and first grade teacher. I'd like to eventually leave the cube life. More eyeballs here can't be a bad step in the direction of turning this into something which might unbind these fluorescent-lit chains.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Ice Capades - Part 1
I'm someone who is rarely, if ever, at a loss of words. I am so confounded by the gentleman I'm going to tell you about, I don't even know how or where to start. As always, he seemed perfectly normal on paper: 34, well-dressed, works at ING, wants to start his own hedge fund, etc... but that all quickly unraveled. Imagine a slot machine game that kept spinning 3 red flags in a row and just kept ringing and ringing and ringing. Every conversation topic with this one was another "winning" combination of weird.
I can't even believe I'm going to admit this, but I suppose we're in the trust tree here. The first time I see him, he has me meet him at Caliente Cab Co - ding ding ding ding - and not even the slightly more acceptable one on Seventh Ave South; it was the one in Murray Hill. Now, I've been putting a moderately half-assed effort behind not being a neighborhood snob anymore, and there's not a section of town out there without its own great, hidden gems, but Caliente Cab is just not a destination. It's somewhere you maybe go to if you live across the street or your office is upstairs. It's loud, gross and there were hooligans screaming at the next table over.
Early on, he tells me he went to a meditation camp. On the surface, I can dig it. Some people are really into that sort of thing. However, this one was in central Florida. ding ding ding My own prejudice against the state time and sanity forgot aside, how can you meditate if you're getting bitten by 5209486203458 mosquitoes while sitting in a 300 degree rain-forest of humidity? He then tells me he'll teach me how to meditate. I told him, let me just stop you right there and help you to understand my utter lack of interest in mediation. Trust me, brother, a cold glass of wine and a full DVR delivers me straight to nirvana.
Speaking of the Sunshine State, after telling him about my job/industry, he asked me if I've ever been to Disney on Ice because he finds it very creative. ding ding ding I nearly fell out of my seat. I hate Disney and amusement parks in general. Hate. Once again, I found myself saying something along the lines of, please understand I will never ever be the type of person to attend Disney on Ice. Never. Even if I have children, that is not an on-the-table option for my life. We chat some more and he asked me if I believe in destiny. I say I absolutely do not, on any level, believe in destiny beyond stopping in a random wine store and finding a great deal on one of my favs. A few minutes later he says he wants to get married. While the grand conversation here is clearly spiraling, and fast, on the surface, fine, you're on a dating website, so it makes sense that marriage is your end game. He immediately follows up by saying HE HOPES I AM THE ONE. ding ding ding ding ding ding What. The. What. do you even say to that? It's our first date and only 2nd margarita. Sitting there stunned as I was scared, he told me, "You will see. Our Creator has a plan," to which I countered, "Jay, I have to tell you that I wholly and fundamentally don't agree with that. I'm atheist."
When I told my friend Liz what we discussed on the first date, she turned to me and said, "Jennifer, I think you might have inadvertently taken crystal meth and hallucinated this whole date. That is the only logical explanation... like maybe there was a loose acid tab in your sock from the laundry. I don't know." I don't know either, but in situations like that, I sort of wish I was on drugs.
As he walked me out, he turned to me and asked if I liked karaoke. Before I could answer, he said he would book a karaoke room for our second date. I told him there is not a chance in hell of that happening and if he wants to see me again, he had better come up with a place that has a truly impressive wine and/or cocktail list. Again, I can't believe that I'm admitting this, but I went out with him again... twice. Stay tuned for Ice Capades, Part: 2. It's a doozie.
Until the next dating disaster,
Vennifer.
I can't even believe I'm going to admit this, but I suppose we're in the trust tree here. The first time I see him, he has me meet him at Caliente Cab Co - ding ding ding ding - and not even the slightly more acceptable one on Seventh Ave South; it was the one in Murray Hill. Now, I've been putting a moderately half-assed effort behind not being a neighborhood snob anymore, and there's not a section of town out there without its own great, hidden gems, but Caliente Cab is just not a destination. It's somewhere you maybe go to if you live across the street or your office is upstairs. It's loud, gross and there were hooligans screaming at the next table over.
 |
| This is an accurate representation of how I felt throughout most of the evening. |
Early on, he tells me he went to a meditation camp. On the surface, I can dig it. Some people are really into that sort of thing. However, this one was in central Florida. ding ding ding My own prejudice against the state time and sanity forgot aside, how can you meditate if you're getting bitten by 5209486203458 mosquitoes while sitting in a 300 degree rain-forest of humidity? He then tells me he'll teach me how to meditate. I told him, let me just stop you right there and help you to understand my utter lack of interest in mediation. Trust me, brother, a cold glass of wine and a full DVR delivers me straight to nirvana.
Speaking of the Sunshine State, after telling him about my job/industry, he asked me if I've ever been to Disney on Ice because he finds it very creative. ding ding ding I nearly fell out of my seat. I hate Disney and amusement parks in general. Hate. Once again, I found myself saying something along the lines of, please understand I will never ever be the type of person to attend Disney on Ice. Never. Even if I have children, that is not an on-the-table option for my life. We chat some more and he asked me if I believe in destiny. I say I absolutely do not, on any level, believe in destiny beyond stopping in a random wine store and finding a great deal on one of my favs. A few minutes later he says he wants to get married. While the grand conversation here is clearly spiraling, and fast, on the surface, fine, you're on a dating website, so it makes sense that marriage is your end game. He immediately follows up by saying HE HOPES I AM THE ONE. ding ding ding ding ding ding What. The. What. do you even say to that? It's our first date and only 2nd margarita. Sitting there stunned as I was scared, he told me, "You will see. Our Creator has a plan," to which I countered, "Jay, I have to tell you that I wholly and fundamentally don't agree with that. I'm atheist."
When I told my friend Liz what we discussed on the first date, she turned to me and said, "Jennifer, I think you might have inadvertently taken crystal meth and hallucinated this whole date. That is the only logical explanation... like maybe there was a loose acid tab in your sock from the laundry. I don't know." I don't know either, but in situations like that, I sort of wish I was on drugs.
As he walked me out, he turned to me and asked if I liked karaoke. Before I could answer, he said he would book a karaoke room for our second date. I told him there is not a chance in hell of that happening and if he wants to see me again, he had better come up with a place that has a truly impressive wine and/or cocktail list. Again, I can't believe that I'm admitting this, but I went out with him again... twice. Stay tuned for Ice Capades, Part: 2. It's a doozie.
Until the next dating disaster,
Vennifer.
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