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. 

Ill Communication

I was stood up on Valentine’s Day and I blame the telephone. I have always maintained not caring much for the phone half of my smart phone. The last time my phone earned genuine excitement was when my parents got me my own line in high school so I could talk to my friends from the National Young Leaders Conference without tying up their line (wish I was kidding.)

Now, phones should be reserved for emergencies only like bitchy comments about friends you don’t want someone to be able to screenshot you saying or when a person is bleeding out and you need to call 911. I digress. More about my funny Valentine in a bit, but not to worry, I didn’t try and drown myself in four inches of water. I went out with friends for all the wine Smith and Wollensky had to offer. All the wine.

I had a real “He’s Just Not That Into You” epiphany recently and because it’s 2014 and my life is spiraling, it had to do with Tinder. Over drinks with coworkers, chatting about that clever little app turning all of us straight, singletons into less functioning members of society, my much younger, male coworker - surprisingly not a fan of Tinder - asked us, “you know what guys do on that app, right?” Umm, obviously not, Gavin! I’m 32-years old and single as fuck. I thought it worked like Facebook where I literally have hundreds and hundreds of matches with whom I never ever speak.

Apparently guys just swipe right on everyone and the wait and see what’s thrown back at them in terms of supposed mutual interest.  And here I was thinking the menfolk put thought into who they wanted to sleep with strike up a conversation with and potentially meet. This makes so much more sense, especially considering a recent interaction I had.

I noticed a new conversation, introduced by someone with whom I’d never spoken, that simply said “Really???” Initially, I didn’t get it, thinking to myself, odd, we both ‘liked’ one another. Not the case. Now I know this guy hadn’t bothered to look at me in the first place, but felt the need to follow up and in one word, express both his assumed superiority and disgust that I could have possibly, even for a second, let my thumb toggle on his picture before saying screw it and swiping right. Real ego boost, that realization.

A gross misunderstanding in how you’re communicating with one another isn’t the only thing to trigger a chain of events ultimately resulting in crushing defeat. Take Connecticut Ed, or ConnecticEd, as my coworkers know him.  (Listen, we’re in the original content game and are nothing if not really fucking creative.) Ed is someone I’d been seeing since just after the New Year and talking to even longer. Naturally, he abruptly went radio silent. I let it go for a week and this past Sunday, delirious with fever, I texted him.

Sunday, 2:56PM – Pretty sure I’m not supposed to reach out after a week of not hearing from someone, but I never claimed to champion my own dignity. What happened to you?

I know doing that goes against the rules, but we’re adults. Have the balls to convey the simple message that it was fun while it lasted, but you don’t see us making a run of it. Ed still hasn’t responded to me, but his answer is pretty loud and clear.

Lastly, there’s the over-communicator like my would-be Valentine, Matthew Tinder, who proved to me you might be screwed either way. Like others before him, our mutual friend gave me the assurance he’s likely not a bunny boiler.  Dear Matthew was all about the chitchat and the phone calls even after I expressed concern that in my experience, too much of that sort of thing before the initial meeting generally leads to disappointment on the first date.  He persisted. I caved. There were multiple phone calls and strings and strings of texts.

He chose last Friday for our first day. I don’t know if he knew it was Valentines Day or not, but I wasn’t going to bring it up. It would have made me look like I was hung up on it when I absolutely was not.  I was going to go drink wine with or without Matthew Tinder. He made a point to say he was happy I found him to be Friday-night-date-worthy. Well, Friday rolled around and I heard crickets. So I asked him if we’re still on for Brandy Library later. He replied with “your thoughts are?” and then not another word. Ever. No skin off my back, but what a waste of time.

I would like a future date to reach out, not even say hello, but instead “meet me at the Spotted Pig next Thursday at 8:00. We'll take it from there” I know people say you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs, but must they all be so slimy?

Dear Abby

Remember that show Best Week Ever? I have no idea whether or not it’s still on the air, but here’s my submission for last week: I went on a date with a Spaniard who thought I was Persian. I’m half Irish and half German-ish, I think…  but definitely questioning the recent change I made in hair color. A few days later, I went on a date with a gay man.  Don’t me wrong, he was lovely. I just hope for his sake he realizes he doesn’t care for women. Lastly, there’s a guy who I actually like, with whom I’ve been on four genuinely good dates. When asked whether or not he’d be attending my Red, White, Blue and Rainbow Olympics party (that’s right, F-U Putin and your lack of respect for basic human rights) told me he actually had to go to another daytime party IN BROOKLYN and couldn’t make it, even after. I may have to stop dating again. This is miserable.

Cool transition in 3… 2… 1… It would be tremendously helpful if there were some sort of digital, on-demand Dear Abby for dating where men could field the perfectly normal questions I have going into a given date. I feel like I’m not alone in needing a man’s point of view to answer simple queries like:    

•        Should I text him?
•      Do men care if you wear a plaid shirt out on a Saturday night when there’s a foot of snow on the ground and your everyday, sequined garb seems absurd?
•       If the end goal is really to not die alone with cats, is telling someone 9:30p on a weeknight (and a weekend night, if I’m honest) is too late to meet up okay? Ugh.
•       Are you sure I can’t text him? My feeling is what do I really have to lose? OK, OK I won’t.
•       What’s a sane way to convey the message “I’m not sure I’m ready to sleep with you yet because sex makes people insane, I don’t need any more crazy in my life and I might actually like you? However, I appreciate you coming in all the way in from Greenwich and it’s late, so feel free to come back home with me for a PG-13ish adult sleepover.”
•      If I want my vintage necklace back from someone who I never want to see again, is it acceptable to ask him to FedEx it to me or meet up for the singular purpose of giving it the fuck back?  

You know, just the basics

The thing is – and this is nothing I’ve never said before – dating is hard. And soul-sucking. And demoralizing. With very little ROI… well, on investment of time and effort, anyhow. They pick up the tab. We aren’t savages.

At the risk of sounding like a big city snob (in no way do I actually care about that – NY is the best) I’m fully aware we city-dwellers have it infinitely easier. I pulled up Tinder when I was visiting my parents in Florida recently and it made me want to shake up a bleach martini with a comet rim. It was depressingly terrifying. But that’s not my point.

My point is, it’s incredibly challenging to successfully navigate across the street in this fucked up game of Frogger we play. When you find something good, or even potentially good, you don’t want to screw it up. I’m not even talking looking down the road to having successfully maneuvered that joystick into avoiding being flattened by a truck, getting you past the 5^th level and down the aisle. Please. I just mean I want to, even for a minute, avoid the sideshow freaks out there. 

And lest you think I exaggerate, be my guest. Feast your eyes on some of the real peaches of men I’ve had the pleasure of coming across recently. 

Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? 

THIS is what you choose for a quick, "about me" blurb? Please pretend I died.

Hey look, you have an ax! I definitely want you to know where I live.

He claimed to be an exhibitionist, not a sex addict. Sorry for the peen pics if you're reading at work. (#sorryimnotsorry)

Forget it. If this is what's out there, I give up. Bring on the cats. 

If you are reading this and you are in a committed relationship of any sort, stop what you’re doing and go tell that person you love them. Or like them or whatever. Seriously, go do it. Because you don’t have to deal with this shit. 

vennifer.

Happy Whatever From CITC

I'm midway through my holiday wine cleanse. And by that, I mean I'm with my family, mostly only ingesting wine. I'll allow coffee, certain hor d'oeuvres, and the other night after dinner, there was a truly fantastic Portuguese port flight.  Fine, I mean YOLO, you know? Then, last night happened.

Sitting around a very formal xmas eve dinner table, we got in a screaming fight over whether or not Facebook is revolutionary. It somehow escalated to what was a genuinely mean iteration of Festivus airing of the grievances. Clearly, there are wine cleanse amateurs among us. Anyhow, after that little episode, I'm not exactly in the holiday spirit over here. I  would, however, like to pour some holiday spirits into this orange juice I have with me.

As I was scrolling through the Facebook, the very thing that ripped our table apart last night, and yet  brings together everyone's lovely holidays for all to see today (you breeders have pretty cute kids) I came across the following someecards and thought, yes, this, very much this.

So yeah, merry day. I've got to go keep up with my cleanse, but in an effort to not be a total scrooge, I'll leave you with my favorite holiday song.   But really, if I'm being honest, my feelings are more in line with Flula.  Kbye.  

If You Build It... Up Too Much

The carbface-ridden weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas seemed like a natural opening to start dating again.  Long hours at the office coupled with a diet of high-calorie dinners and enough booze to kill a lesser functioning alcoholic, I’m living life at the top of my game. I joined Tinder and Hinge, the latter of which had to look up on my phone as I wrote this in order to get the name correct. Again, all in over here.  All. in. 

Why wouldn’t I be? Almost immediately, someone contacted me and asked if I would pick a red or blue balloon given the choice?  I suggested option C: dying alone with cats because now I remember why I stopped doing this. Actually, I didn’t say that. I said, blue if we’re at an election party, otherwise, grey, given the option of more colors. He told me grey means I’m sophisticated, classy, a little aloof and added, “in general, colors are somewhat reliable because we’re all primitive inside.” What? Please stop. 

On the flip side, another early, interested party, this time hailing from Hoboken, showed promise. For starters, I trusted our mutual friend to generally not keep the company of psychopaths. We quickly bonded over a shared hatred of all things Jerry Jones as well as both of us incorporating Aaron Hernandez into our fantasy team’s name. When two people find enough humor in an athlete who has likely killed about seven people that they make him their team’s namesake, relentless flirtation is the customary progression. Right? It totally is.

Not only was he nice, but very funny. He’s a Giants fan, wine lover, drinks Jameson by the pint and didn’t seem to mind the fact I am unapologetically ridiculous. We got along swimmingly, so well, in fact, when he twice suggested skipping the bullshit and simply meeting him at the alter, the joke didn’t make me vomit. He was also extremely generous when it came to spontaneous praises, something I normally find nervous-twitch-inducing. It actually made me smile, not cringe, but I did grow concerned all this chatter and built-up expectations would only lead to disappointment upon finally getting together.

Saturday was the first mutually available date we could find in three weeks to do so. The plan was to belly up to the bar at L’Artusi. Walking half a block in the snow in 5” heels made it very apparent I would likely fall and injure myself if I didn’t go back and change into boots. I forgot an umbrella and failed to remember to grab one while I was back inside. This ultimately made me 30 minutes late and by the time I got there, the snow had melted into all my hair products, forming a sort of mullet product helmet on my head. It dried out, but it was a far cry from how I originally walked out the door. Not my best look and a catalyst to a near crippling feeling of hyper self-consciousness. 

We sat there for three hours, shared food and even an after dinner drink. When relaying that info to my dear friend and her sister at brunch Sunday, they both echoed the sentiment that you don’t sit somewhere for three hours with someone you hate.  However, if I’ve learned anything from a certain self-help book the most important television show of our time, it’s that sometimes, he’s just not that into you.  And I don’t think he is, but he did pay the bill and held an umbrella over me until I got into a cab. It’s more likely he’s just nice than the chance I’ll hear from him again.

I got a little choked up on the way home, possibly aided by Bulleit consumption. However to be wholly forthcoming, it bummed me out. It’s not so much because of one, unsuccessful date with a man I hardly know, but just the whole exhausting, soul-sucking process. Sometimes it just feels like life is trying to cuntpunt you and you can’t seem to do yourself any favors. I think that makes it ok to have a quick cry, threaten the cab driver who doesn't want to drive you back to Brooklyn with physical violence, pour another drink and move on. And that, ladies and germs, is exactly what I'm doing. 

Why I Finally Started Entering Guys' Names Into My Phone

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. 

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.

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.