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.

The Hoarder

I've been seeing a man who sometimes won’t reach out to me for five days at a time, who recently told me I'm preferable to a Japanese sex doll he read about online. Because I can text. And in those texts, I can verbalize the fact that I'm very much rolling my eyes when he says shit like that. Romance is not dead, people! This story has nothing to do with Japanese sex dolls (ugh, I know, sorry!) Or that man. I just thought it was worth mentioning. Because awwwww.

A few short weeks ago, I went to goodbye drinks at a bar I frequented in my mid 20s mostly for the fact that one or two of their Long Island Ice Teas were all you needed – a necessary evil when you essentially made no money as a media planner, but still "had to" pay Manhattan rent.

Amid the glory days throwback and the mourning of another LA-bound New Yorker, it was strongly suggested that the following story is one in need of telling on a more grand scale. I don't necessarily agree, but sometimes you have to give the people (Margot) what they (she) want. I suppose it's fitting, though, as I've just ended my brief tenure at Maker - a place that often left me crying at my desk, wishing the ceiling would rain down cold, steel knives. The initial, hysterical, possibly-still-drunk telling of this story is one of the things that (sadly) solidified friendships between four maniacs with whom I shared a table and me.

This story is one about hitting a low point. We've all been there. Stick with me and I assure you, you'll feel better about the last time the poor-decision devil perched upon your shoulder reached across your chest and stabbed the solid-life-choices angel in the heart with his trident.

If you build it… up enough… perhaps the drop off rate will be such that most people won’t continue reading on about this shameful thing you did.

As I previously mentioned, I chose the carb-filled weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas of last year to start dating again. That time is like a bizarre Vegas staycation where don’t really ever sober up until after the New Year. Well, libations may have been free flowing, but I was in a bit of an epic dry spell in my personal life. 

The evening began with an in-office holiday party at Maker that was every bit as nice as a low-budget middle school dance. There’s nothing that says “we appreciate the work you’ve done this year” like bringing in a couple extra bottles of vodka and wine and putting a dinner order in through Seamless. Perhaps I was just mad at them for mimicking every Friday night in my life when the temperature drops below 30 degrees in New York. Or maybe the bitterness came from the fact I to finish a proposal with no help, while a bunch of programmers, who spent their days gaming and loudly shooting off Nerf guns, turned down the lights and turned up the greatest hits from what sounded like an album titled something along the lines of Serial Killer Pump Up Jams, Vol 1.

As usual, I’ve strayed from the point, but I’d just like to take this opportunity to once again congratulate myself on getting a new job. 

I simply meant to suggest we had a few cocktails in the office that evening. What also came to light is I did not understand how Secret Santa works as was evidenced by the fact that the bottle of whiskey I gave to mine had a card attached adorned “To Flannery, Happy Holidays from Jenn.” What. Ever. It was the best gift going. I got a Mickey Mouse doll in a Giants jersey. I’m 33. It’s been about 30 years since I’ve wanted any sort of Disney-themed gift. 

Hopped up on wine I can’t see costing more than $10/bottle – if that, the time had come to leave for my date with Tinder idiot #67859403. I honestly don’t remember his name. I debated not going when he texted me asking if I wanted to meet at Tom & Jerry’s. I did not want to meet there. I went there once, like seven years ago, stole their entire bowl of matches and I’m still not out. I can’t imagine why I would need to go back yet. We landed on Madame Geneva. We had a million gin drinks. We went home together.

  

What should have been the worlds biggest and brightest red flag was his leaving me outside the front door (of his floor-through Nolita apt) because he needed to quickly tidy up. The exact chain of events is fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure I took that time to ignore the shuffling of paper I could hear on the inside and read the 37,000 group messages from the girls at the office telling me to meet them at the bar. Again, dry spell + gin + cheap office wine clouded my judgment.

Sometime around 5:00am I came to and very quickly realized the mistake I made. The first alarming realization was that there were no sheets on the bed. Oh. My. God. Gross.

INT. HOARDER’S NOLITA APT – BEDROOM

Jennifer frantically scans room for discarded garments, grabs dress and hurriedly throws it on while fighting off nervous twitch.

There was a real hockey stick correlation between the room coming into focus and my level of horrification. I made a quick mental note to take a bath in rubbing alcohol as soon as I got home. To give you an idea, in addition to the non-existent sheets, all of his drawers were slightly ajar with crap hanging out and the bedside table on his side had a pizza slice takeout box on it. His closet looked like he’d put his things away using a t-shirt cannon.

CUT TO:

INT. HOARDER’S NOLITA APT – KITCHEN

Jennifer walks out of the bedroom in search of her sweater, coat, purse and shoes, realizing somewhere, amid this ocean of unopened mail, there’s probably a dead, flattened cat. She audibly makes the heroic decision to not vomit until she gets home, as it would only delay leaving.

When I say an ocean of mail, I mean it. Every inch of counter space and most of the floor was covered in mail. I’m fairly certain I saw cable and electric turnoff notices. If only he’d been evicted, this could have been avoided.

No longer caring whether or not I made noise, I collected the rest of my things while gagging at even more takeout containers he hadn’t bothered to throw away. Whyyyyyy did I have to blackout last night? I stomped back into the bedroom, furious at myself, to make sure I hadn’t left anything. Now awake, he asked where I was going. HOME, I shrieked. He sat up and said, “I feel like things just got really real in the last five minutes.” Yes, you disgusting slob, you’ve correctly identified the situation.

He insisted on walking me downstairs to get a cab. I’m not sure if he had keys or if all of the papers sort of shifted to prop the door open for him. As I hopped in a cab and rode off down Houston into the sunrise, I realized I’d left a vintage necklace on the nightstand that wasn’t covered in takeout containers.

In order to get it back, I feigned interest in seeing him again each time he asked me to give him another chance while simultaneously putting serious thought into how badly I actually needed this necklace back. Could I really sit through another drink in the presence of a bona fide hoarder? I eventually leveled with him and somehow convinced him bring it back to my office, saying it was a family heirloom and had priceless sentimental value to me. It was not and it did not. I just liked it. I walked out onto Broadway, thanked him for bringing it to me and then shuddered the whole way back upstairs before taking a Clorox wipe to my hand and the necklace.

The things we do in the name of love companionship a roll in the hay… ew, actually, I just can’t. Gross. I think I might simply cut my losses and look into that Japanese sex doll.

If you enjoy, pls share this. With a publishing house. In a perfect world, I actually do something with these one day. And get out of the cube life game.  

Cavemen

I generally reserve this forum to air my grievances about bad dates and hopefully entertain some of you in the process. Mercifully, I’ve recently been able to enjoy a bit of a respite form the more disheartening side of dating. In no way does it mean I’ve heretofore shared all the terrible tales there were to tell.  Rest assured, I have not… not even close.

Sometimes people’s freak flags fly so freely and so high, you mentally block out what you’ve been through. I liken this to how how I imagine women with more than one spawn deal with the pain of childbirth. Except, for a single girl, this sort of self-inflicted suffering has the potential to take place 7 nights a week, 365 days a year. Lucky us.  

Before we dive into the ex-file archives, I’d like to bring to light a conversation I had with the raison d'être for the namesake of this blog. I was in a real “what the fuck is wrong with me - I do NOT understand men” place and she said to me:

“Think of dating like you live in a cave. Men come by and sniff into the cave. They check things out. They’re easily scared if the animal inside the cave makes any sudden movements, but if they like what they smell, they eventually decide to hang out in the cave.”

Her point was essentially to reassert your independence and you’ll always be in a good place. Great advice. That, along with patience, goes such a long way. Next, I’ll move on to working out an agreeable, bipartisan solution to address climate change and then cure cancer.  I still don’t understand men. At all.  What follows is just one of a myriad of reasons why I feel that way.

Coffee Meets Bagel is easily one of the worst dating apps I’ve ever tried. For those of you fortunate enough to not know, it’s an app that spits out one potential match each day and if you like one another, sets up a private conversation line that expires in a week or so whether or not you use it.  If it’s unattractive, un-dateable people you’re looking for, then CMB is your jam. Despite my track record with the latter, I don’t actually seek these people out. They simply find me.  

One day, they sent me someone who seemed agreeable enough. The dbag-o-matic meter should have screeched right off the charts when I scrolled to the picture of him with a shit-eating-grin in the back of a Bentley, but I think I caught a quick case of best-of-what’s-around syndrome (plus, if I’m honest, I wanted to hear what life is like as a broker at Sotheby’s – so premium) A connection, as they call it, was made.

The dbag-o-matic meter, henceforth known as d-bomm should have slapped me upside the head once again when the first thing he said to me was, “Hi hunny. Text me at 917-463-(I’m not actually mean enough to show the rest of his number) this app is so slow.” I am not now, never have been, nor will I ever be anyone’s “hunny.” I ignored. He followed back up a few more times, so, as he suggested I do, I texted him something along the lines of “Hi, this is Jennifer from CMB – how are you?”  He quickly responded saying he needed me to send a picture so he could tell me apart. Apparently, he had more than one Jennifer texting him at the moment. In no uncertain terms, I assured him I was one less he needed to worry about.

If I were a betting gal, I’d bet “Abraham CMB D-bag,” as he’s known in my phone, is not the kind of guy who gets told NO very often by girls. He very quickly, profusely apologized for offending me. I made it clear I wasn’t offended and told him he just sounded like a pompous asshole (not an exaggeration – I actually said that) and I’m not interested in dealing with it.  We made plans to meet the next week.

Sometime in the following day or so he decided we should get together that night.  I said I had plans, which was a lie. Proving The Rules theory that men love a chase true, this set off a string of texts where Abraham CMB D-bag implored me to cancel my plans and meet him that night. No.  He answered saying Thursday would be freed up if he takes an earlier flight home from his biz trip, and could I meet then? No, brah, sometimes I like to drink wine alone,  hang out with my cat and sing along to the soundtrack of Les Misérables at the top of my lungs. I said I’d meet him next week, as planned.

The could-not-be-less-eagerly-awaited chosen day rolled around and he texted me at the crack of dawn saying he’ll meet me later in Dumbo, where I live. After telling him not to worry about coming all that way, I’m happy to meet in the city (provided we have a mutual understanding that “in the city” means below 14^th St,) he told me, “I don’t mind coming to you. You can give me the tour…” HA! I wasn’t born yesterday and I’m certainly not sleeping with you tonight, but thanks for playing.

He asked me if 9:00pm worked.  Umm, grandma needs her sleep. I have to really like you to meet at 9:00pm or later on a Monday and right now I’m hovering somewhere around Skeptical As Fuck on the scale of Love to Hate.  I lied (again – is this becoming a problem?) and said I was taking clients to Soulcycle at 6am. He responds saying sex with him can be my warm up. Why some guys think it’s acceptable to say shit like that to anyone, much less someone they’ve never met, absolutely blows my mind. Ick! I told him absolutely not. He asked if I was worried I wouldn’t get enough rest and then this happened:

I told him I don’t find talking about sex inappropriate, but the context in which he brought it up was off-putting, unsolicited and unwelcome. It soon became very clear his freak flag flies too high for me. I couldn’t do this, not even for the story. 

I’ll go ahead and beat that dead horse. What is the matter with people? Is this what New York does to men or were some of them simply raised by a pack of wolves… or, dare I say, in a cave?

As I continue to navigate my way through NY’s pool  - at times, a cesspool - of available men, I try to be patient.  Patient, knowing there are good ones out there, who just might come out of their cave and hang out in mine for a while. Patient, knowing they’ve probably left some skeletons behind in that cave and might have even dragged over some more to mine. But that’s ok. We all have lives to live.