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. 

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.