Contestant Number Four - follow-up

It has been over a month since I wrote about my date with Tonya. Unfortunately this isn't because I've been busy filming home movies involving me, her, and teacher outfits. But wait, it wasn't I who dropped the ball on this one. No, I like to think she lost the opportuity to help me cross an item off my sexual bucket list.

Let's recap.

My date was scheduled for a Tuesday. Tuesday night dates are optimal because those are the days that I volunteer teaching music at the homeless shelter in the city. If I have a first date in NY, I always do it on a Tuesday so that I don't have to make an extra trip into the city that week. Also, when the girl asks what I was doing earlier in the night, I can nonchalantly reply, "Oh, I was just playing guitar with Malik and Lyonna at the shelter - You know they don't get a chance to experience music like other boys and girls their age in the suburbs." No shame, none at all :)

The place I was to meet her was some low key sports bar near midtown - convenient for both of us. Meeting time was 8:30 and I finish teaching at 8. This should have been no problem... should. As we were packing up all our instruments and moving them from one room to another, a little boy whom I shall now lovingly refer to as Cockblock, decided to close the door with all the kids' belongings, along with the keys to the room itself - and him - inside of it. (You're probably wondering how a door gets locked from the inside. Trust me, so was I.)

Under normal circumstances this could have easily been solved, except this is a NYC shelter. The guards and staff running this place have problems finding the numbers on a clock, let alone keeping the keys to all the rooms organized. No one could find a master key, and Cockblock was too busy crying like a little girl inside the room to successfully look around the room for the keys. As I tried to keep him calm by shouting through the door, the guards assured me that I was free to leave. If you knew the guards at the shelter, you would understand my trepidation in leaving a hamster to their care, let alone a human being who I wasn't even sure had parents.

It ended up taking multiple trips to the front office, walkie-talkie relays and phone calls to find a master key. It also took an hour. All the while I was texting Tonya to let her know what the deal was. Of course she'd understand, right? Wrong.

When I finally made it to the bar, over an hour later, I found Tonya sitting by herself at the table looking a wee bit upset.

"I was about to leave, ya know. You're lucky I stayed."

Hmm. I proceeded to apologize, order some drinks, and try my best to lay down the Mikey charm. I explained the whole situation but Tonya didn't seem to care. I was late and she had to sit and watch the game all by herself.

Over the next half hour two things had become very apparent. Tonya was very cute with ginormous boobs, and she wasn't going to get over me arriving late. Every once in a while she would begin a normal get-to-know-you converstion, giving me a sliver of hope, only to retreat back to more bitching. At the 45 minute mark of this 'date', I had had enough.

"Here's 35 dollars. I got to get going."
"What?"
"It's been a long night and you're obviously upset. I couldn't leave my kid by himself and you can't seem to grasp that so imma get goin', catch you later."

And with that, I was up and out the door - along with my fantasies.

I've never done that before. True this girl was turning out to be a beeyotch. But she was a CUTE beeyotch - with superpowers in bed. I was essentially walking away from a pretty girl who just wanted to bow-chick-a-bow-wow. But I'm too old to be dealing with women of this ilk. It wasn't like this girl was wifey material. Being a teacher, she should've understood some of the responsibilities you have with children. How could she be so shortsighted?

As I left the bar, I thought two things to myself. This is what I should expect from a girl from Queens who talks about her squirting habits over the phone. And two, do not, under any circumstances, look back at the seductive melons still sitting on the table.

PS: The best thing is girls will read this and wonder what the dilemma was. Guys will read this and scream NOOO, YOU IDIOT!! GO BACK! GO BACK!!

Still Alive!

I just wanted to let you few loyal readers know that I am still alive. Yes, each and every one of you loyal people who I have never met, do not worry, I have many more long winded diatribes about the she-devils that co-habitat with us chivalrous men in the tri-state area. I am just currently inundated with the nuances of my new job - teaching.

In the meantime, if your single, watch Jersey Shore on MTV and thank yourself for living in one of the other 49 states.

PS: Whoever told me that there was lots of pretty women in teaching lied. They told a bold faced, deadly, lie...

Outtakes 2

Grey's Anatomy (or simply "Grey's" as women annoyingly like to call it) has, for the fifth year running, kept the title of most excruciating show men must suffer through before making out. This spot was previously held by Friends (post Rachel-Ross breakup). In fact, the two hour Grey's followed by back to back Friends on your local cable affiliate has made Thursday nights more infertile than Bea Arthur's corpse.

BTW, I owe you all a recap of the date. It is coming this weekend. Sometimes the day job calls my attention.

Contestant Number Four

It's been a while since I've introduced more contestants to the show. Lest you forget, this is the HelpMikeyFindaWifey gameshow where one unfortunate girl will win the chance to demand a divorce from me in 2-5 years. I've spent the past few months tugging at the heartstrings - but let's balance that a bit. Without further adieu, I introuduce... Tonya. AKA - The Squirter.

Normally I would say, get your mind out of the gutter, but uh, you can keep it there - because that is precisely what I'm referring to....

Tonya is a cute Italian 26 year old teacher from Queens. She seems well read, opinionated, pretty funny, and loves the Yankees. Good start, no? She's one of the last few people I've talked to on Match.com before my subscription recently ran out. We did the e-mail exchanges, and graduated to the phone numbers. On our second call last week, she dropped some details - all of which were good, but one was quite fascinating. After reeling off a list of bedroom habits she very casually mentioned the fact that she can mimic a human Super Soaker. Hmm.

What do you say to that? Do you follow up with: "So, what's your favorite place for cocktails in the city? What are you currently reading? Do I ask her how long she's been a squirter? There really is only one thought that follows this bit of info - I gots to see this... and possibly film this. :)

Ladies, let me give you a bit of advice. When you divulge information like that, you pretty much have changed your surname to BOOTY CALL. The chances of a guy dating you seriously after that are slightly better than the chances of Jennifer Aniston finding love. Within 24 hours, every buddy of mine knew I was about to go on a date with a human highlight reel of porn.

There is only one problem. I kind of find this girl interesting. I'd like to go on a serious date with her, not one where I'm constantly thinking of when will I get to see the show. However, I'm having a hard time of taking her seriously, because with every phone call she consistently flaunts her superpowers. I feel that's all I'll be thinking of when I meet her. I mean, ladies, if you were about to go on a date with say, SpiderMan... wouldn't you want to watch him shoot a web from across the room just once? - especially if he's been talking about swinging from church towers for two weeks. Hopefully I'll be able to enter the restaurant with an unobstructed mind. Date's this upcoming week. I'll let you all know how it goes.

Outtakes 1

Why must unhooking a bra be so complicated? It's only two clasps, yet I have a better chance of reading braille than getting two hooks undone in under 4 minutes. I start fumbling around with excitement like a young Mikey circa Christmas '91 when I knew there was a GameBoy hidden in one of those shirt boxes - sweaty palms, drool, and a maniacal look in my eyes.

Good thing the family isn't around to take pictures at least.

The Getting Insanely Lost Test

We're about to introduce a bit character in the Mikey gameshow - her name: Erin from Minnesota. She's an old friend that I've known for close to 10 years. Nowdays we keep in touch through e-mail, but there was a different time of course.

A few years back Erin visited NJ with the idea if things went well in her 4 day stay, we would take things to another level. Despite the 1200 mile distance between us, this plan made perfect sense. That's how it goes with long distance relationships. On paper they compute like perfect math. In reality, you're more likely to see A-Rod and Kate Hudson togeth-- no way really??

By the third day of her visit, things were going well. Despite this, though, I hadn't felt anything to make me think about trading in my beach badge for a life of shrinkage in the Minnesota cold. (btw, if you've never been to Minnesota go outside and take a picture. Then, let it sit in the sun for 12 days till there is no color left in the picture - just a drab gray splotch. Viola! Welcome to the Twin Cities!) I decided the perfect thing to spark things up would be a day trip to Philly. We could eat cheesesteaks, run up the Rocky steps till we puked the cheesesteaks, lean over the guardrail and touch the crack in the Liberty Bell and then have sexy time in Betsy Ross's house. Again: my blog, my fantasy.

With our plan laid out, we set off across the Garden State around 11 or so. At 3:30, I Iooked over at Erin and let her know it was safe to get out of the car. We had arrived in Philadelphia, although, it was hard to tell since most Starbucks throughout the world look pretty much the same.

I'm not sure how it took me close to 4 hours to get to Philadelphia. As Erin deadpanned at the 2 hour mark "Didn't you grow up like 20 minutes away?" Technically, she was correct, but this didn't help when my car ran out of gas halfway through Jersey. Nor did it help when I-95 was shut down to two lanes. Remember, this was way before my phone could give me directions to China.

Upon entering Starbucks, I retreated to the bathroom to call my roommate. He was basically horrified at how my day turned out. We were supposed to be meeting him and his girl for dinner at 6, so our day long odyssey pretty much assured the only part of Philadelphia Erin and I were going to see was the Starbucks on Walnut Street. To say the least, this was not turning out good.

I left the bathroom ready to go into full joke mode - anything to keep the mood light and prevent things from blowing up. What I hadn't expected to see, however, was the sight of Erin holding a new CD, a bag of coffee for my roommates and two drinks. She smiled, paused and said, "Cmon, let's sit by the window."

For about an hour, all the time we could afford, we watched the rain pour down and engulf the side of a dilapidated building. There was no Liberty Bell or Rocky steps today - just me, her, and two feminine drinks... and everything was OK.

Months later Erin and I would point to this day as the moment that things turned for us. For better or worse, we were together.

It also gave rise to what I consider one of the most important tests for a significant other in a relationship - The Getting Lost Test. Plenty of girls in that situation would have verbally berated me to the point where I'd consider driving into oncoming traffic. These are the type of women, that no matter how wonderful they appear in normal room temperature, will blow gaskets like Trasha from Real World Sydney when faced with any unexpected circumstances. They complain when babies cry. They'll blame the dog for their farts (ok, that's me). Their Facebook status will be a constant feed of what's wrong with their lives and what's wrong with you. Finding out which people are going to inevitably go crazy isn't easy. This is why you must administer The Getting Lost test.

Listen to me, if you haven't gotten lost in a car with your significant other yet, do it now. I'm serious. This weekend make a trip to your nearest city, but don't actually go. Instead, get insanely lost. Make it an all day event that would fray the nerves of a monk and take notes on how your significant behaves. I'm telling you, the resulting behavior is the behavior that you can expect in every tough moment for the rest of your waking lives together.

Stating the obvious here - relationships aren't smooth, marriages even less so. By the time you reach wherever it is you set out for, it's probably not even there anymore. More than anything else in relationships, make sure you find someone that enjoys the trip more than the destination. Words to live by from an eternally single Mikey.

Mikey's Ride

I hooked up with a girl in my car the other day.

That' really nothing to write about. The unique thing about this is that I own this car.

It's a 2002 Pontiac Aztek - There are about 16 or so still laboring the earth like Andy Rooney lurking the CBS newsroom. I always wonder what goes through the mind of these NY girls when I roll up in an Aztek like a tank rolling into Kabul. It's amazing I get a girl inside this thing, let alone do anything else. I kind of wish that at a certain moment in the hook up, the car would spring to life like KIT from Knight Rider and say "You've been TEKKED baby!"

It imagine it wouldn't be the voice of KIT though, but more like Willy from Friday.

Eternal Sunshine...

To the left of my bed I've rotated two movie posters for the past 5 years (let's not call them posters. They are, after all, mounted -thereby signifying I am through with my college years). One, is the movie Garden State. The other - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

The years haven't been all so kind to Garden State. Once set to become the defining coming of age movie for a generation, it has now crept towards being a parody of self-indulgent, sentimental males that wear scarves in the summer. Something derailed what should've been a timeless cult gem.

Instead, the movie that took that honor is my current piece of 'mounted art' - Eternal Sunshine. It is bred from the same genre but is less sanguine, more sublime, less cliche - and a hell of a lot less whiny. It is just plain more striking. Striking enough that although I own the DVD and count it in my top 5, I've never actually opened it up and replayed it, until last night.

_______

Two weeks ago I visited D.C. It was the annual getaway with the college roommates. Each year we trek to a baseball stadium in a new city and partake in three nights of drinking, watching baseball, seeing who got fatter, and, for the two unmarried ones - flirting with las chicas. I love this weekend. No really, I LOVE this weekend. Any girl that is rolling their eyes right now is just angry that their idea of a weekend with the girls involves sitting through two Appletinis at Friday's while hating on Jon/Kate/your boss/your one girlfriend that isn't there to defend themselves. (easy ladies, it's a joke :)).

On our second day of general debauchery we woke up circa noon and eventually stumbled over to a little organic brew bar near the DuPont Circle. The place looked a bit too dead - and healthy - for my buddies, but right as we were about to leave, the waitress shuffled us to the basement area and said "Seat yourself."

This, however, was no basement. It was a glorious ManCave just for the four of us. A dimly lit tile floor, two leather couches, a huge flatscreen with speakers everywhere, and a granite bar featuring beers from lands I didn't know existed, with our own personal bartender coming by any moment awaited. It was just us... and her.

Krissy the bartender was sporting some long black locks, a contagious smile, a cute nose ring, and just enough bartender sass to make guys tip her more than what she deserved. After revealing she was a graphic designer who was returning to school in an attempt to stay out of the office and do something a bit more humanitarian, there was no question how I was spending the afternoon. I just needed some help from my buddies and/or a 6 pack of rufies (again, just a joke ;))

As the hours passed we engorged ourselves in watching When Animals Attack and getting drunk off exotic beers. Every time a shark ate someone, Krissy shot out in approval. This could have been as blatant as when chicks pose on Maxim with quotes like "I love working on my Dad's '57 Chevy," but I enjoyed it nonetheless. I was still getting a feel for her when we somehow stumbled on the Eternal Sunshine movie (how do you stumble on this movie? I might need to work on my game). I mentioned, that although one of my favorite flicks, I've never seen it a second time. In the movie Jim Carrey's and Kate Winslet's character - both exes - go through a series of 'mind cleanses' that erase the memory of their relationship in an attempt to avoid the lingering pain. The movie concludes with the pair meeting up once again later in life. I was certain the fill in the blank ending results in their eventual break up again.

"They get back together." She said this as if she owned the script to the unwritten sequel.

Huh? No way.

"Yes they get back together. Things are different this time. Life is different. It's not their fate. You need to watch the movie again thinking that they get back together. It will change everything for you." A small smile punctuated these words.

And with that, I was sold.

_______

We all utilize a variety of ways to protect ourselves from getting hurt by she-devils and jack-offs. Some sleep around and avoid anything resembling a relationship. Others use humor and write silly blogs about finding a wifey. Others avoid feeling anything deeper for the obvious, although never admitted, fear of getting pooped on. I took some advice last night and cracked open the cellophane on the DVD. What was once an unwatchable movie that hit too close to home turned into a glass half full ode to second chances and control of fate. That weekend in D.C I shared a few texts with Krissy but I never met up with her after leaving the bar 175 dollars weaker in the ass. Chances are she's a passing girl - but then again scripts change.

Cleavage Watching

I was sitting in another workshop the other day, suffering through another afternoon of mid 80s stagnant heat, struggling to keep my eyes open yet again, when I found the perfect thing to push me through that 3 o'clock hour - unobstructed cleavage.

Normally cleavage can only be glanced at. I like to follow the Jerry Sienfeld approach: "Looking at a cleavage is like looking at the sun. You don't stare at it. It's too risky. You get a sense of it and then you look away." On this afternoon, however, I found myself privy to an unobstructed view of my cute classmate's perfectly tanned breasteses.

Naturally, I took this once in a blue chance to look. And by look, I mean gawk. Further enhancing the viewing was that it was the first day of Sun Dress Season. Second only to Simmons' first day of Halter Top Season on college campuses (I believe it fell on the third Sunday in April this year), is the annual first day of Sun Dress Season. A beautiful day when young professionals collectively decide it is much too warm to wear any pantsuit at work and, instead, begin wearing a silky yarn that is supposed to be a sort of fancy clothing but, in fact, could double as a handkerchief.

Seriously there is nothing that will cheer up a boring day at work like a cute girl prancing around in what looks like yellow lingerie. On the flip side, nothing can be much creepier than a guy blankly staring at a girls cleavage in one of these sundresses. Being caught mid-stare is one of the more mortifying - and awkward - moments you can share with a girl. You really have no excuse. There might as well be a neon light flashing above your head.

On this day, I was daring that light. I don't know if it was the heat or the boredom of class, but I think I stared for 12 straight minutes without blinking. It was like wearing sunglasses and staring directly at the sun. I only stopped when my glance firmly met with another male classmate mirroring my actions. My reaction was akin to when the ghost of Christmas Past brings Scrooge back to look at his grave. "Spirit... is that me? Oh God, no! Nooo!!"

I think I will be taking a moratorium on cleavage staring for a few weeks.

The Homeless Guy Test

Back about 15 years ago the gangster movie, A Bronx Tale, hit the scene. It was a cliched diluted version of all the DeNiro/Pesci mob flicks that came before it, recycled into one and spit out. I'm not saying it was awful, but the acting wasn't exactly coaxing any man tears from me.

Thinking back on that movie, two things stick out for me. First, was the way lead actor, Chazz Palminteri (Calogero), physically ran throughout the movie. Why did a skinny actor in his 20's run like a mentally retarded girl? What was wrong with his arms and legs and why could they not bend? This wasn't exactly helping his credibility as someone who you'd be scared would shoot you.

The other, arguably more memorable scene from A Bronx Tale is when Calogero takes a girl out for a first date and gives her The Door Test. Calogero's mentor, Sonny, explains it as this: Make sure all the doors to the car are locked when you pick the girl up. Then, walk to her side of the car and let her in. As you go around to the other side wait for the girl to unlock your door from within the car. "If she doesn't reach over and let you in, dump her. That means she's a selfish broad and that's just the tip of the iceberg, dump her right there."

Although I tend to disagree with the exact method Sonny uses, I am 100 percent in agreeance with the test's purpose. Actually, I am in 100 percent agreeance with any test a guy gives to ween out the keepers from the pretenders. These tests come in many forms usually centering around juvenile guy rules. My literary hero, Mr. Bill Simmons of ESPN, is the author of one of my favorite: the Field of Dreams Test.

I think the world is separated into two kinds of people -- people who loved "Field of Dreams," and people who don't have a heart. If I were dating a woman and she said she didn't like "Field of Dreams," I'd immediately dump her. I'm not kidding either.

Of course, I have one of these tests too. It's called the Homeless Guy test. You all know Mikey likes to go on dates in the city. Some time after our overly priced sushi and right before the awkward goodbye, my date and I are going to undoubtedly run into a man wearing an eclectic blend of woolen clothes and Hefty Bags in the dead heat of summer.

Whenever I see a homeless man or woman I will always toss some money. A single dollar usually - not much - just something to acknowledge their prescence and maybe help them grab a slice of pizza. Now many among you, including some of my friends, will ridicule me for this. I never understood why. No, I don't know if this guy is an addict, or if that dollar is going towards a beer or a line of crack. Unfortunately I do not have the time to take every homeless man I meet to the nearest bodega to purchase some Twinkies. I do, however, have the time and the ability, to say hello, acknowledge that they exist, and give them a dollar. Bottom line is at the end of the day my life is going slightly better than his - so who cares?

Now here is where the test comes into play. When that homeless guy approaches us I take careful note of every facial tic of my potential mating partner. Are they welcoming? Disgusted? Do they smile politely? Do they clutch their Coach bag and clickity-clack their ass in the other direction? It's not about giving a dollar (although I'm sure since I paid for dinner they could spare the buck), it's how they react, and, also, how they react when I give the dollar. I've had some girls acutally laugh when I give away my dollar. Generally speaking these girls lack souls and they probably poke at caged animals in their spare time. How you treat a homeless man says a lot about your character and just how selfless you really are.

In conclusion, I implore you men out there, in an effort to save you time, sanity, and greenbacks, to use this test on your woman. If she treats a homeless man like a leper then you are in store for years of going to her family's house every holiday, watching every episode of Friends until they pass out, having her forget to pick you up from the airport at least 4 times, and most importantly.... she'll wind up being the type of girl to go 'south of the border' once every lunar eclipse--if you know what I mean.

Don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Should I Powder My Balls? pt. 2

Warning: Again, this is silly and juvenile. If you're looking for decent writing scroll to The Chunk or The Brazilian. Read at your own amusement.

You ever find yourself lying on the beach, smoking weed from a tampon, gazing up at the stars defending Jesus' supernatural nature to a Jew and wonder... who the hell is this girl lying next to me?... let's recap.

So we went sans powder the other night. I hadn't seen this girl since the college years and the idea was just to catch up and chill - spend a night waxing philosophical. Of course, I would still be eyeing her up for a possibility of any future dating opportunities.*

She rolled up to the chateau around 9 or so. Her legs telescoped our of the car first, and three minutes later the rest of her torso showed up. She was a solid 6 feet tall and I swear 5 feet were legs. I didn't quite remember her looking like this. Actually I didn't quite remember much of anything about her. But hey, she's here to hang out, receive consolation, and take in some herbal refreshments. No hanky panky. After a quick tour and an hour of catch up we set off down the road to the beach.

So there we were laying on our backs, sprawled out on a patchwork hippie blanket in the middle of the sand with no one else around. We were staring upwards trying to decipher constellations and sharing some herb when The Smoker started talking about Jesus the Prophet. Much to the chagrin of every one of my left leaning atheist agnostic artistic friends, I still believe in Jesus the Superhero. A debate continued back and forth until the joint burned out. Without any paper to roll anything further, we were about to pack up and head home. However, as if to prove my point, Jesus set aside helping professional sports teams win games long enough to send a brilliant idea into her cloudy mind. And I quote: "Well I have some tampons in my purse. We can fill that up into one giant blunt and smoke it."

Seeing as I've never rolled a joint to begin with, I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. Apparently this girl was adept at rolling J's out of a variety of paper based substances including tampon wrappers. This was both alarming and impressive. After carefully aiding in rolling what looked like a giant horse turd, we continued our friendly little debate. Feeling satisfied with proving what no theologian has done in centuries before, the topic turned towards her recent dumping. I extolled my advice like I always do to my lady friends except, right at the moment when she whimperingly said, "People don't understand," I leaned over and as if on cue, planted one on her.

I had to. Don't you see? Beach. Summer. Cute vulnerable girl. Mind altering substance. Reunion. The only thing missing was a weak acoustic song from The Fray playing in the background. I had unknowingly walked into the middle a bad OC episode and was contractually obliged to kiss her. Actually, since there were no good OC episodes, let's rework that sentence to: I had unknowingly walked into the middle of an OC episode.

The rest of the night was chill. She seemed to be pretty happy with the kiss despite claiming that I took advantage of a girl on the rebound. This is probably true, but hey, it was just a kiss. It was in the moment. After a few hours The Smoker headed home and I, remembering that it was a Wednesday, decided to head to sleep. Right before we parted she eagerly shouted out with a smile:
"So, you going to blog about this escapade tomorrow?"
"What this little thing? Please, I'd just as soon write about powdering my balls."

Now, if only I could remember her name.

* (This brings to mind a good point: Ladies, you should note that men DO NOT, under any circumstances, want to be your friend. So many women will say, "Oh, he'd NEVER think of me in that way." Trust me, he would. And he has. That's not to say we don't have women friends - they just happen to share the same Venn diagram circle as 'failed relationships' and 'first cousins.')

Should I Powder My Balls? pt. 1

Warning: This is silly and juvenile. If you're looking for decent writing scroll to The Chunk or The Brazilian. Read at your own amusement.

I will try not to be too graphic, but ladies, let's put some things on the table.  There is a certain area on the male anatomy that, even under the wintriest of conditions, will tend to heat up. Most of the time we don't mind all that much. However, if it's the middle of summer, or if we are about to embark on a date, the feeling of 'bat wings' can be a bit unsettling. Therefore, we always make sure, no matter how little the chance of getting nekkid... even just for peace of mind... we powder our balls.  

Similar to how you ladies wear fancy, frilly Victoria's Secret underoos on first dates (even with no intention of letting them be seen) simply for your own mental comfort, us fellas chalk up for that extra level of comfortableness.  Before every date I venture on, I powder my balls like I was preparing a chicken cutlet in a bucket of Shake and Bake.  It's a careful process, as you don't want to overdo it and make your little guy look like its about to appear in blackface for a 1920's silent film.  

The thing is, whenever I powder the Onion Sack, it invariably ensures that my date will be a bust. Or, if I'm actually dating someone, shining The Jewels guarantees that she'll either A) be in the midst of entertaining her monthly visitor, B) have a splitting headache, or C) pass out before I finish suffering through back to back Friends episodes. Despite this, you still have to partake in the ritual.  It's only after you fall madly for each other that you can introduce a lady to the more enjoyable aspects of dating like not showering and Dutch Ovens.

The corollary to this is also quite true.  For example, if I somehow neglect to sugar the kiwis, then the stars will align and I'll wind up meeting a sweetheart - or the girl I'm seeing will have just finished reading the sex column in Redbook. Either way, not a good time for first appearances.

All this jibber jabber does have a reason. I recently got in touch with a girl from college. I can't understate the randomness of this. She is one of those facebook friends that you rarely talk to. I found out that she had just called things off with a short term guy and gave her the usual friendly advice. She mentioned needing to smoke tonight. This is probably not the best idea in her state of mind but to each their own. I, myself, rarely partake in the wacky tabacky but I find it amusing to watch others do so. Naturally, I figured this would be the perfect time to have a reunion of sorts. I've invited her to come by and hang out with me for the first time in about 6 years. I don't remember what classes we were in and I have no idea what her last name is but it really doesn't matter. All I know is she's cute, and seems pretty fun so why not? I honestly have no intentions of anything, but still -  I wonder if I should powder my balls.

Option C

The saying goes: Expect the Unexpected, and, when it applies to my dating life, it always holds true.  I suppose my choices, as well as the girls I date, lend themselves to a certain amount of randomness. However, I still stand surprised at how many times a particular scenario plays out with neither the expected positive (A) or negative (B), but rather the peculiar - Option C.

Sometimes a most rewarding outcome does occur. A year ago I was out with a good female friend of mine. While we were indulging in some cheap cervezas I figured (A) the typical friendly flirting or (B) the unlikely meeting of a sweet girl at the bar would occur. Certainly not for (C) her bosomy, (there I go talking like my pop again) blonde, stereotypical Jersey girl roommate to suddenly, after knowing me for a year, bring me to the beach and confess that she wanted to make out. This Option C rarely happens. 

More often than not Option C is just bizarre and/or frustrating. It ends with tiptoeing down stairs, meeting parents who I didn't even know existed, or my taking care of a vomiting girl. I've grown to hate Option C.  I never know exactly what it is, but I welcome its arrival like a wet fart. 

A quick sample of the option C happened this morning. Nikki had written earlier in the week apologizing for not getting back to me and seeing if we could maybe fit in a lunch this weekend. I told her to simply get in touch with me. I heard nothing, as expected. However, this morning I woke up and saw: Missed call - Jailbait - 4:04 am. I was ecstatic. There has never been a phone message left at 4 o'cock in the morning from a girl that didn't lead to something good. I figured at worst she was going to drunkingly say how she was smitten with my bad self and couldn't wait for Tuesday to arrive so we could jam out at the shelter, talk about rare musicians and then get a cup of java in SoHo all while discussing how overrated Ginsberg was and Obama's bungling of the TARP funds. (Listen, it's my f'n fantasy, I'll tell it as I please!) What I wasn't realizing was Option C.

The message opened up with a cavalcade of metallic sounds marching towards my eardrums and a racket like that of two trains wrestling. Then, the light whisper of a distant laughter - perhaps Nikki - echoed through the cacophony of sounds growing less and less audible.  More rhythmic metallic noises and more half hearted chatter each took turns filling up my inbox.... and that's it.  That's right, five minutes of random  subway drunkenness from her ass sitting on the phone the wrong way. Just like this post, the phone call was the pinnacle of anticlimactic action. 

Damn you Option C! Damn You!!

Still cleansing

I'm still in the midst of taking that aforementioned small breather from dating - or, more aptly, just cleaning house of some past ladies.  I find it's like shitting out a bad virus.  You need a few days to get the flu out of your system before you can feel 100 percent again...  And you have to flush twice.  

The Choke-a-Bitch Emoticon, a long week, and a TV timeout

Years ago my best friend Johnny and I were discussing the concept of e-mailing as it pertains to women and dating. Although the technology was in its infancy, the discussion seamlessly applied itself to text messages as well. We found that women have an intuitive knack for crafting a well intended and deliberate message that always allows for them to change the importance, anger, or overall flirtation of said message at a later time. They carry out these verbal loopholes with the use of well placed, strategic semicolons and parenthesis.

This little sucker, :) OR (: OR :-) and his bastard twin ;) has been the cause of more frustration and anger than Popeyes running out of their $4.99 chicken special.

For instance (actual true examples being used):

"Just having dinner with him... We dated 7 years ago! I think you're worried too much :)"
editor's note: About 5 months following this e-mail, they were engaged.

"Maybe we can get drinks after dinner. I don't have to work tomorrow ;)..."
editor's note: She actually only wanted to get dinner much to the chagrin of little Mikey.

"Hey! I'm sorry I just got your text... Batteries!!.. I know I'm tough, blame my job. Can we reschedule for tomorrow?...:)"
editor's note: See The Brazilian for more info.

It is in response to messages like these that the use of the as of yet to be invented "Choke-a-Bitch emoticon" would be applicable. The picture of one smiley face joyfully restricting the air supply of a neighboring smiley face conveys a wide variety of feelings that I, too, can change at my own whim. I believe Chris Rock said, with only a slight modicum of inappropriateness, "You haven't truly loved someone... till you've thought about killing them."

This comes to attention because, had the option been there, I might have sent this to a few select girls this past week. Unfortunately, one of them was my favorite underage contestant, Nikki the Volunteer.

Nikki's candidacy in our game show has been formally rescinded.  Too much confusion hurts my head.  A series of rescheduled dates (including one at my favorite springtime event: the Tribeca Film Festival), confusing texts at 3am, and constant hot/cold flirtatiousness depending on what hour it is, has sealed her fate. Oh, and bitch ate my Rolos.

I suppose a majority of this is my fault for asking a girl out that is two years removed from her Senior Prom, but one cannot help who one likes. Even with the age, I am slightly surprised at her spastic behavior.  She's a sweetheart who seems to have good intentions.  Perhaps women are simply predisposed to acting irrational much like a dog is predisposed to licking his own balls, even when he is neutered.

The rest of the past week was an uncanny combination of studying 1400 pages of text in preparation for for my upcoming career change, the lawyer girl halfheartedly getting back in touch with me, family responsibilities which kept me hooked up to an IV of Mountain Dew to stay awake and dealing with people who take their jobs way too seriously at work.

Despite the long week, I take everything in stride. One of the reasons being is how I ended my week. I managed to fit in some time visiting with my ex-girlfriend, my grandfather and my mother. The Big Three of Cancer. I showed up to each meeting complete with an arsenal of hugs, food, and inappropriate jokes. I'm like a traveling clown and I don't mind it one bit. If I can do anything to bring a smile to one of their faces I’ll do it and I’ll do it every weekend til they get better.

Wtih that said, I do need a small break from dating to regroup. I do enjoy most of the madness, but there is only so much I can tolerate from females before the choke-a-bitch icon ceases to be allegorical. If I’m going to be arrested I’d rather it be for underage sex than attempted murder. Don't worry, there are plenty of stories to fill up that time.

Rolos

Nikki loves Rolos. Yes,  those little chocolate caramel nuggets that look like rabbit turds. They went the way of TAB soda and are pretty hard to find these days.  She once mentioned if I ever happen to come across them I WILL buy them for her. Well, last weekend at a Dirty Jersey rest stop (it was only fitting), I did come across some, and thought it would be a cute gesture if I brought her a bag. On the way home I decided to open them up and have a few to keep me awake, but that is beside the point.

Since asking Nikki out for coffee, I haven't really heard from her. She said she'd "hit me up" but nothing. I was taking it as a hint. My friends, however, say that since I am the man here, who also happens to be 8 years her senior, I should take things into my own hands and set something up with a definite date. They could be right, but I feel they're just holding on to the hopes of me winding up on a YouTube video.

Nevertheless, I took their advice and last week I brought the bag of Rolos with me to the shelter where we work. That's right, I was going too woo her with a half eaten bag of chocolate turds.  After playing a rousing game of musical freeze tag where I'm proud to say only three kids cried, we packed up for the night and headed out.  As we approached our point in Chinatown where she goes to the F train and I head back to hell - I mean Jersey - I reached for the Rolos. Suddenly this exchange went through my head:

"Hey little girl, you like Rolos?... Yeah??
Well I got some in my pocket! I also have some puppy dogs and Charleston Chews in my white unmarked van out back!... Come See!"

At this point, I rubbed my face just to make sure I didn't just spontaneously grow a mustache. I shoved the Rolos back in my pocket and stumbled with some equally awkward words about coffee this weekend. She seemed totally matter of fact in saying yes and that was that. Was it really that easy? I'd like to say yes. I texted later to let her know about the Rolos and she said hopefully we could eat them this weekend. Could she really be that chill? For the love of Jesus, Mary, Joseph and Cupid I'd like to say so.  But she owns a vagina. Those little bastards are tricky.  We shall see...

The Chunk.

Her name is Chunky.

When we dated she had (still has) a killer body with a tiny belly that I liked to rub when she ate too much. I would call her Chunky and she'd laugh. It's corny, I know. We broke up with what now seems like decades ago. I had no intentions of keeping in contact with her, but you know how that goes.

This weekend Chunky had to shave her head. Chunky has the Big C. Along with my grandfather and my mother who are currently battling the disease, that's three people who I've seen diagnosed with cancer in the past 6 months.

I'll try to keep this light.  This blog is about my quest to find a trophy wife. It's about the stupid shit I do as well as the illogical acts, Dating Crimes if you will, ( I have proposed that girls be brought up on dating crimes against humanity much like Mussolini was brought up on war crimes after WWII ) that girls commit which contribute to my singleness. However, I have to give a shout out to the Chunk. She's facing this ordeal with the courage of a toddler approaching a weekend at the Never-Land Ranch. You're not supposed to have cancer at 28. You're not supposed to lose your hair, have your career derailed and your personal life interrupted while approaching your zenith, but she knows life is not fair. Those that accept this truth are the ones that succeed at life. ( It also helps if you are born white - go ahead white people get angry at me for writing that! ) She's even started a blog to help cope with the events of the next few months. It's amusing and filled with the one thing she's always possessed - sometimes to her own fault - a stubborn courage.

Between my mother, my grandfather, and her I stand inspired every day.

Take care Chunky - if you need someone to shine your dome, you know who to call.

Contestant Numero Tres?

I asked a girl to coffee the other night. Sounds nice, right? However, the reason I asked her to coffee and not the usual wine fest is because not many establishments would allow this girl to indulge in an adult beverage... being that she's 20 years old.
Time out - let me explain.

This is not any ordinary 20 year old. This girl - let's call her Nikki the Volunteer - is quite the mature cat. I met her at an orginaztion I volunteer with in NYC. Last year, this NYU freshman decided that she, too, wanted to hang out in dirty shelters while having kids yell at her all night long. (It's actually a great place with wonderful kids. I'd plug it but then I'd probably be bringing bad press to a good cause)

On the first day of our program Nikki stuttered into the housing project all sheepish - she had glasses, braces, a few extra pounds of Otis Spunkmeyer lunch cookies still lurking on her body from high school and a wardrobe straight out of Hannah Montana. Her job was to teach piano to a crowd of kids who I was leading in a chorus of  'To the WINDOWWWW, to the WALLL!!!' In a matter of an hour she had their full attention. When it comes to teaching you either have it or you don't - and she had it. I dig this.

Fast forward a year to last September. This time Nikki struts back into the shelter fresh from summer break at home, and I swear it played out like a kitschy teen movie. The braces were off, the baby fat gone, and long brown hooker boots were clickity-clacking on the floor. She went all Alyssa Milano post Who's the Boss on me, only if Alyssa Milano was 8 years younger than myself.

I sought the counsel of my friends and the advice was pretty much how one would expect. Before I could explain why I was actually interested in this girl, my male friends were referencing Quagmire  and hashing out elaborate scenarios.  I would be invited back to the dorms to funnel beers and coax her girlfriends into doing things seen only on the internet, all while trying to wake up for work the next morning and staying one step ahead of Chris Hansen and his camera crew. Of course this would all be chronicled in HD video for them all to see.

The ladies had a slightly different reaction. I believe the words 'Amber Alert' were mentioned a few times.

Listen, I know I'm at a completely different stage in life than her. I am looking to buy a condo and possibly change careers. I want to have a dog, and a yard - maybe even buy some furniture that doesn't have to be assembled out of a box (not that there's anything wrong with IKEA). On paper this is an awful idea, but I feel there's some type of mutual attraction here - so fuck it. I'm going for it. What do I have to lose - besides my ability to stand within 30 feet of minors...
Giggaty Giggaty!

The Follow-up

I took the easy way out. I e-mailed.
Back in the good old days of 2002, I would have picked up the phone and said; "Hey boo, I am feeing your steez. Whatchoo say we go out again and do it up yo?" ( I might have actually said this too - you know, in a jovial manner.) These days, I generally write an e-mail like I'm following up on a job interview. I like to play it relaxed so as not to put any pressure on said girl. I'm convinced the worst thing you can do is put any pressure on a girl to make a decision. Even if it's at McDonald's, and there is a DMV-like line behind you, and she's weighing the choices of quarter pounder vs. double cheeseburger, DO NOT pressure her to hurry up and make a decision lest you are ready for a lecture on being pressured or a possible quarrel. Trust me. It's similar to negotiating a contract. I suppose it's an age/generational thing.

I did hear back and supposedly she does want to go out again. We've exchanged a few texts and she mentioned having a good time and setting something up soon, but I feel as if we're losing momentum - our date was two weeks ago. Hmm... I think we're going to file this under TBD for now with a big chance of She's Just Not That Into You.  Wait, did i just reference that awful book? Someone send help.

Don't Want to Jinx It...

I haven't said much about Saturday night's encounter with the lawyer... and there's a reason. It's because I have no clue what the deal is.

In my eyes, the date was good. Like real good. In fact, I felt en fuego. She was responding to everything I said with a laugh and a sexy hair flip followed by more questions and actual listening. We had a scrumptous sushi dinner, got lost walking downtown, and went bar hopping till 1AM - a 5 hour date. The Sake was a'flowin, conversation was excellent, the flirting was firmly in place, and the clothes were falling off. Ok, the last part's not true, but I did chest bump the bathroom wall during one of my pee breaks at the bar I felt so good. She was incredibly sweet with such a fun personality. I was sure I was going to get an invite back to her place to take the couch because it was so late, and moreover,  she seemed to genuinely be interested.

Walking her home, though, something changed. Not only did I not get in the door, but just as we reached her apartment I got a funny "Hmm" feeling. Perhaps she had one too many and just needed to retreat. Perhaps she was just tired, but something felt a bit off. A quick hug goodbye and I was searching 7th avenue for my car, a slice of pizza and a place to pee. I settled upon a dark alley for the latter, hoping  I wouldn't have to call her to bail me out of a Manhattan police station or take the knife out of my leg.

Soon after, the obligatory post date exchange occurred (I feel these should just be automated by bots at this point). She mentioned having a great time to which I responded "Hopefully we'll get to do it again..." I received no message back.

Hmm...

A few notes worth mentioning now before I phone tomorrow and see if there is indeed a second opportunity:

• She was very easy on the eyes. Although she never tore off her glasses and accosted me over a bed of spicy tuna rolls, she did continue to flip her hair back over and over again like she was starring in a Pantene ProV commercial. I enjoyed this.
  
• The description of her thesis on politics and the fallacies and pitfalls of a two party system genuinely interested me. It made me want to rip off my glasses and accost her over the sushi table - but I wasn't wearing any glasses. This would have hurt my face.
  
• She had two tattoos. I dig this.
  
• She mentioned that she, too, had a crush on Topanga from Boy Meet's World - and would promptly do her if ever an encounter were to occur. I really dig this.

Phone call is tonight.. Here's hoping for another date!

A Few Odds and Ends

First of all, welcome to everyone who found this via Lemondrop! I've had fun with this blog and fully intend to keep this going until I find me a wifey. Enjoy the next 5 - 10 years of entries!

Secondly, tons of folk misconstrued the question I posed in that forum. I could absolutely care less what religion you are. My question was simply rhetorical as to why some people feel the overpowering need to marry within their religion. I just don't get it - I would never let silly dogmas get in the way of something bigger. That's right, I'm talking to you Frieida Pinto of Slumdog Millionaire! Don't act like you're not impressed with Mikey!

Lastly, I'll have a follow-up post about the Lawyer/Librarian from last week soon.  I am still waiting to see if  this turns into a DWO. If history is any indication, this should be 3 weeks tops.

And feel free to e-mail me.  I have a corporate job.

I'm Tired

Ladies, I propose a new rule. 

 

If the date is going well... and you plan on seeing the guy again... and said guy lives an hour away, the cut-off time for when you can send him home is 1 am.  Anything after that and you're going to have to take a chance of me being a creep and trying to play a game of "Look What's in my Mouth"

Either end the date earlier, or get a canbottle of mace and take your chances. I thought I was going to have to drop Red Bull directly into my pupils on the way home.

Contestant Numero Dos

I've yet to write about our newest contestant of the HelpMikeyFindaWifey gameshow. The reason being is I've had about four dates sort of materialize over the past month - yet not quite. Getting a girls number is only the first step of what truly should be a much easier arrangement. Actually securing the date is like playing a giant game of Plinko from The Price is Right. You drop your invite and cheer as it plunks it's way down to the middle "Saturday Night Date" column. Then, at the last moment when you think you've successfully avoided every pitfall, that little bastard disc makes a wrong turn and it lands in the "watching Love Actually with your Married Friends" column.  (The analogy can safely be used to describe the whole process of getting a girl from her living room to her bedroom also.) As far as I can tell though, the Plinko disc has safely landed in the middle, and I do indeed have a date tomorrow night - 14th street for some sushi and sake!

Sushi is the optimal first dinner date. Sure it's chic, quite tasty, and every city girl loves it, but the real reason it's ideal is because it's hard to spill any on yourself - and it wont make you gassy. If you go for Italian, some drop of Ragu is invariably going to find your shirt cuffs, while American food has a high probability of not sitting right in your stomach jeopardizing any post date action.  And, if you're thinking about finger foods on a first date, you are simply asking for trouble.

Additionally, the alcohol served at Japanese establishments is strong enough to power alternative fuel cell vehicles.  It definitely serves to ease the mood and make my jokes funnier. This always helps because I can never refrain from yelling the word SAKEEEEEE! like Mr. Myagi screamed BONZAI!!! in The Karate Kid. Some girls find this amusing - others, not so much.  It all depends on the Sake.

The woman to be met is a tall, cute lawyer from the city.  She seems incredibly sweet and funny. She also has shown me a certain link... to her blog... with a picture of her wearing an Obama t-shirt. I know what you're thinking - liberal mess! However, being someone who once created a"Mikey/Obama 08" t-shirt back in '04, I'm trying to avoid any unfair labels. She's going to have to attempt a third trimester abortion with a recycled earth friendly wooden hanger right at the dinner table before I pass that judgement. 

I've actually read most of her blog and it's doesn't cry self-indulgent. She simply serves to observe city life in quite a witty way.  Some excerpts:

There are two acceptable paths up or down any staircase; the right side or the left. Not the middle. Only take the middle if you would like me to think horribly bad things about the size of your ass.

What is with those clear-ish umbrellas that look like mini-domes? They seem so constricting. Just looking at them makes me claustrophobic. And why are they always carried by Asians?

See, not bad eh?  A little on the hater side, but kind of attractive if you ask me!

Of course, the most attractive part of her is that she wears glasses. Not just any glasses. The black thick librarian glasses that somehow made their way into every male's fantasy over the past 10 years. Im giddy with this prospect. I've seen my share of B rated movies. We all know how the story goes. In fact, I demand that as she enter the sushi restaurant she whip them off in one fell swoop of her head and untie her hair bun through the sheer power of her mind alone. The success of the date hinges on this moment. I am thoroughly excited.  Wish me luck!

Dear Women at the Gym

Please do not become angry and shoot me "Excuse me?!" looks should I stare at your buttocks while you are on the stepping machine. You see, I am a voracious reader. I read everything in sight in order to further educate myself. Therefore, if you have P on one ass cheek and NK on the other, I am merely staring intently, trying to find out what this could possibly mean. Proper spelling is key to my understanding. " Just looking for the "I" maam... just looking for the "I"."

The Brazilian...

I got your attention didn’t I? When you find out someone is ethnic you always become more interested. I’m convinced she used this fact to become more appealing, much the same way I use the statement “I’m Puertorican” to secure more jobs in landscaping. I do not like to write about anyone that I know will read this, but she recently threw out a crazy line via e-mail that prompted me to type away.

She was a publicist from NY... a dark, foxy, tall drink of water that reminded me of one of Charlie's Angels (for fun, sometimes I like to describe girls how my father would. Didn't you get a Dick Tracy feel with that line? I just lit a cigarette and leaned towards my desk fan with no protective facing.) She was also a writer with an effusive way with words which she liked to display in her very own relationship blog. At the time, this sounded awesome. Another person that likes to express themselves in long winded diatribes! Advice to other men who might find this intriguing: Stay away. People with blogs are slightly off-kilter, self-indulging, loquacious folk who analyze themselves and all their relationships in life like the FBI analyzed the grassy knoll video. Trust me.

After one date over 10 dollar drinks, she told me that she had met someone else. No biggie, I know the rules. However, she did add that she wanted to remain friends. I found this odd, but harmless. Of course, when I never expect to hear from them again is always when they pop up with an e-mail.

I cautiously went out with my little canasta dancer a few more times over the next two months. When I was younger, I lived in Spain for a while and formed a pre-pubescent fetish for Spanish dancers. I was always hoping she would show up in a long frilly dress like she was about to crush grapes with her feet and she’d roll her R’s as she recited funny lines from Anchorman with me. In reality, she showed up in American jeans and we went to bars where I was forced to have mojitos, listen to U2 and lose more of what precious little masculinity I have left.

We seemed to be clicking. She was incredibly engaging. I was drawn to her like Matt McConaughey to a bad movie script. She challenged me to read books without staples in them and she perfectly balanced all her talk about art and politics with a goofy joke about, you know, stuff that really matters. Everything was going well except for her score of 11 on the shadiness scale. For every one date we went on she would cancel about 4 times leading up to said date, yet continue to call and plan for future dates. I knew something was off, but I ignored it. After all, her little blog (ugh) said she had just broken up with her bf - she was probably just moving slowly... *

At some point though, the craziness must stop and the confrontation begins. It turned out she had a boyfriend all along, but he was just moving out of the country. She wasn’t sure if she was breaking up so she was seeing me “as a friend”, but surprise, after I put my toungue in her mouth, things became more than just friendly. I was pretty pissed that someone could be so inconsiderate of me and my time - but I understood.

I’ve always found it quite ironic when we say that silly little quote at weddings about “Love being kind, and love is not selfish and love is this and that.” When I hear this line at weddings, I become more infuriated than when they play the new electric slide rather than the old one. Love is one of THE MOST selfish feelings out there. When you truly are in love, or you think you have the opportunity for it, you will do ANYTHING for it and you will act in the most callous of ways to achieve this. There’s a reason people keep watching that craptastic movie The Notebook. That love shit is powerful and we will do what we have to make sure we have it. The problem arises when we hurt others to achieve it. I can honestly understand why people leave marriages after 20 years, but I’ll never understand why people cheat. In one instance you are looking for love, in the other you are willing to hurt another to do so - not my style. In the Brazillian’s quest for love she decided to travel across the ocean to be with her man and when I confronted her about it, she had the decency to be honest.  I can respect this. In my life, I've done similar, and so have you.

By the way, the funny line that she recently told me: “Hey, I didn’t have a boyfriend when we went out. He wasn’t official – ok he was, but he wasn’t I’m getting married official”  Right.

There are two morals to this story. 

If you read over you can figure out the deeper one. I'll stick to the superficial one: 

You can get away with a lot when you have long legs that say Made in Brazil.

* You may think I'm stupid for not realizing the obvious but I should add (after doing some Googling) that I found a video online of her and her friends in her backyard – having a pillow fight.....pause.....I swear I'm telling the truth. A Brazilian pillow fight. She even displayed a Street Fighter move a la Ken with the pillow, twirling around in order to knock out everyone in her vicinity. At this point, I was sold. I didn't care how crazy she was, I was going down with the ship. "Sure Mr. McConaughey, the names of the movies are Fool's Gold and Surfer, Dude. But you’ll be making 20 million and you’ll have the chance to work with your shirt off!"..."Where do I sign?"

Practice

Years ago I used to wrestle. You know, the real wrestling on a mat where you starve yourself for days so that you can go up against someone equally as small as you in a battle to see who's the toughest... at 141 pounds. I mention this because in my 10 years of wrestling I probably attended close to 1500 wrestling practices. That's right, about 3000 hours of wrestling PRACTICE. 125 full DAYS of my life PRACTICING for a sport that while I excelled at in high school, never took me to any accolade worth mentioning. (Scholarships to Franklin & Marshall & Drexel do not count - Blue from Old School could've started at their schools.)

I've begun to think about wrestling practice because after my best friend Johnny asked for a run down of my date Friday night I mentioned that it was kind of like going to wrestling practice. Approaching the bar (gym) I knew what was about to ensue. Two hours, or in this case because of an inordinate amount of appetizers, four more hours of PRACTICE. Once you settle into your bar positions and give a few warm-up laps you sadly realize you are going through the motions that you have gone through for 10 years of dates all in anticipation of a the big match with someone else. But you have to continue with practice. Coach aint blowing that whistle for at least two more hours. 99 percent of your dates in life are practice for that big final match at some point in life. For some people in life that match sadly never comes or you become so impatient that you label the wrong person as your big match and then you become like Kevin Spacey in American Beauty or, more realistically, Al Bundy. At this point you are probably assuming that the date went bad. Not so.

We had good conversation for almost four hours.  We had a good span of topics from the idea of destiny vs. choice in Slumdog Millionaire, my current favorite movie, to her actual lilliputian like height. (Upon first meeting she didn't actually walk up to me at the bar, in so much as jump up like a kid trying to catch a balloon that flew away. Keep in mind I stand a towering 5-10.) 

One interesting conversation was on wine etiquette, of which I could write five boring paragraphs on how much this bothers me. Now I know some of you are wine afficianados, but I have always thought wine to be the drink of a higher class. It's just an old and admittedly false thought I have from a decidedly lower middle class upbringing, but it's there. I can enjoy a glass of wine but I cannot talk about it in terms that I would normally reserve to describe a sexual experience. I realize this is a serious hobby for some people but it just makes me giggle. (It just occurred to me that I talk about fantasy sports as if it were a viable second income so perhaps I have no room to bitch)

Peaches was especially astute to these descriptions and thought it would be fun if I could describe four different wines in terms like 'sparkling vs. robust' and 'deep bodied vs. shallow' and my favorite, 'oak-filled vs. floral-crisp.' I thought it would be fun if we ranked the amount of alcohol she was ordering as "acceptable vs. youbestbepayin for that" She even ordered four appetizers of various mushrooms, cheeses and hold onto your taste buds - raisin bread! I actually shouldn't make fun of raisin bread. On the hierarchy of breads it is only one spot below the king of all breads - cornbread. The appetizers were tasty, but here's a good time to mention she had only 7 dollars on her at a cash only bar that she herself recommended. Oh to have the mindset of a woman for just one day! I had to leave the date briefly to go the nearest Korean store and get some cash.

Again, the date wasn't bad. In fact it was rather good, and judging from her mandatory post date texts she had a good time as well. I especially liked how she mentioned she was 'surprised by me.' That is basically a judgement on my place of residence. I'm telling you, no one likes to date someone from the Jersey Shore - it's like admitting you have a case of non active herp on a first date. That's why I go to NY and Philly.

Despite the good time and the refreshing feeling of dating someone with one foot "in the clouds and one in the cubicle," I know this was just practice. I may try one more date to be sure, but we all know you can't fabricate chemistry, or that special feeling where you want to take her back to your place to recreate that scene from Fatal Attraction (it's a joke).

I can only hope that all this practice is for a reason. I hope when the big match comes I'm fully prepared.  In my final collegiate wrestling match I eked out a come from behind 4-3 win in front of my family and my girlfriend. It was one of only a handful of matches I won in college but it was definitely the most rewarding. It put everything in its place so to speak.  It justified years. I walked off the mat with no regrets, and thankful for everything wrestling brought me - even the practices. Maybe things will turn out like this in my love life- minus the sweaty guy I was laying on top of in spandex during the final seconds.

A cute wine bar on Broome Street

So tonight is date night.  I actually didn't know I definitively had a date till about a half hour ago when we solidified our plans via - what else - text message!  Using a phone requires time, energy, and old fashioned communication skills.  People don't really combine these three traits all that much anymore.  Fielding a date amongst the city types requires careful planning and patience. If MacGuyver were on the air today, ther would be an episode where he has to go to work, travel home to change, AND meet someone for a mojito...ALL CROSSTOWN!  The complexities of this are enormous. They must finagle their work schedule, (100 percent of their jobs would collapse like AIG if not for their presence on that particular day), maneuver around the island of Manhattan as if it were the board game Mouse Trap, and still make it home in time to catch an hour of Grey's.  This requires the use of text messages and e-mails, 12 taxi cabs, and some sort of Blackberry device.  I've also found out that if you live on the lower east side, you've seen the upper east side about the same number of times as you've seen Cheboygan Illinois, so don't think about suggesting a place to eat that is greater than 3 blocks from their residence.  These are facts, I kid you not.

In any case we are meeting at 7:30 at "a cute wine bar on Broome Street."  Since I still have the Philly girl on my mind I have no expectations and little excitement for this.  That is always a good way to go into a date.  I haven't even cut my hair in three months.  Some guys do this.  After certain moments in life they don't shave or bathe.  Since I have a desk job and bills, I am forced to do some minimal grooming, but the hair is growing like a Chia Pet on steroids.  For those of you who do not know me, I kind of look like this guy, multiplied by this guy, with a dash of this guy.

Although my mental state can be more properly likened to this guy.

Wish me luck with Peaches tonight!

Contestant #1

After the latest DWO (didn't work out), I wasted no time in putting myself back on the site that spawned most of the past year's tales - Match.com.  As many of you know, I am no stranger to internet dating - I might even be called a wily veteran at this junction in life.  The Jamie Moyer/Derrick Mason/Steve Martin of internet dating.  I view it as a necessary evil - especially being a bustling citydweller like myself* -  in today's harsh romantic landscape. 

I will reserve my drawn out love/hate feelings towards Match.com for another day, but after a week of sifting through the NY/NJ singles mess I found a girl we'll call Peaches.  She is unlike anything I have ever attempted to date because she is white. When her picture first came up, I tried adjusting the contrast on my screen to make her appear darker.  I kid... but she really is white, and a redhead to boot.  Whenever I meet a girl I always quickly imagine what our offspring would look like.  I fathom this pairing would kind of be like the bastard love-child of Elmo and Burt from Burt and Ernie.  

Despite our unfortunate offspring potential, she is pretty cute and she has a really awesome profile. Just saying those words makes me slightly nauseous. "She has a really awesome profile..." Bear with me, this is dating in the 00's in the city* Let me show a few excerpts that caught my fancy...

 - I especially love people that border on ridiculous

 - I like to talk about politics, social responsibility, karma, why i am here, the past, the future..

 - As much as I like to have fun and act giddy from time to time, life and all of it's mysteries are not far from my thoughts..

 - hobbies include volunteering, flea markets, and like everyone else "exploring the city"

She sounds like the perfect liberal mess that will undoubtedly love me and dump me in a month.  I can only hope she is a vegan of some sorts too.

I am in the midst of setting up a date with her right now.  I am thinking the usual.  Two bargain basement 10 dollar drinks by a man dressed in all black beside one candle that gives off just enough light to let me know I am talking to a female.  She'll order a glass of wine and I'll order something I'll later regret.  (I have no knowledge of hard alcohol that hasn't been mentioned in an R&B song.)  This reminds me of the time I was handed a glass of wine to drink with three, yes THREE glasses.  Apparently you were supposed to mix one of them or something.  All I know is one of them was a goblet and I mentioned that I felt like Harry Potter in a Snoop Dog video to my date.  She didn't laugh.

*I really don't live in NY (my family did), but I do spend lots of time there volunteering and pretending to be an urbanite.  I tell girls I either live in NY or Philly because I have convinced myself that I will be moving to one of these cities very shortly.  Cmon, do YOU want to meet someone from the Jersey shore?

The Bagel Women

In every office situation I've worked in there is always someone kind enough to bring in a dozen bagels or donuts. This surprise find in the kitchen is like a mini Xmas morning.  In every office situation I've worked in there is also a person who finds it necessary to cut up said bagel, or donut in half, and then cut in half again, and another half, thereby diminishing the food to a morsel not even a pigeon would touch while simultaneously rubbing their grubby fingers all over the food.  Do you think I'd like to eat that powdered donut when there's no more powder on it?  The thing is this person is ALWAYS a woman, and she always comes back for the rest of the bagel/donut later in the day.  I hate to generalize or anything.

No Hoodie

I was in the Princeton area yesterday - a mere 30 miles from my hoodie - when I came to the conclusion that, while most of my friends were in full support of me getting my stuff back, it was merely because they were hoping for a humourous debacle to occur akin to the Gingerbread house explosion of '02. (Way back at Xmas time of '02, my gf at the time thought it would be cool to carry a fight from our room to the living room where my friends were and verbally embarrass me .  I then thought it would be equally cool to grab a gingerbread house we made earlier together and scream "You see this! This is our house together! This is our wonderful houuuse!" right before launching it into the wall.  I was vacuuming up M&M's and jelly drops for days.)

In any case I decided to leave all is well alone.  After all, I really was more interested in leaving the door open for us meeting up again and not in retrieving my clothes.  Instead I went to Starbucks to begin the the hunt for my wifey.  We all know coffeehouses are the best place to find smart artsy girls.  It happens in all the movies I watch so it must be true. 

First Post

They say writing helps get things out.  By they, I mean the shrinks.  If nothing else I plan on entertaining myself and a few of my friends.  I know I wont find a wifey, but I might as well chronicle all the fun. By fun, I mean heart wrenching torture.  It does seem to make for some good stories.

I don't have time for a backstory on me, and you don't really want to read one, so we'll just get right into what's going on right now. (ok quick: 28 y/o average dude with an advertising artist job, single, living in the Jersey shore, nice guy, liberal, sports nut - you get the deal)  I got dumped last week - by e-mail - by a girl who I thought I was about to start a relationship with. Nothing new, except for the extreme briefness of the e-mail and the fact that she actually wrote "it is what it is"  A few e-mail exchanges later and we are officially done... but she has my hoodie.

Now the hoodie isn't all that exceptional.  It was only 25 dollars and probably made in China, which I strictly oppose, but man that thing is like my Linus blanket.  It's got that towel feel to it and it worked well with every pair of jeans I own.  And now it's probably on the bottom of her chair with the sleeves getting stepped on.  I could just cough it up as a casualty of dating - much like my sanity, almost every DMB CD from college, and my phone bill from the girl I dated in Ohio.  But I don't like the way we left things.  I'd like to see her one last time.  I want to show up to her Philly apartment and be all nonchalant.  Say a few last words and leave off with a wink and a turn of the back.  Maybe even flip my returned hoodie over my current hoodie James Dean style and then fist pump the air like Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club. 'Don't You Forget About Me' will be playing in my head and she'll wistfully think, "Damn he was a pretty cool guy... maybe I'll see him again sometime..."

What will more likely happen is she'll leave it out on the doorstep or I'll show up and she'll curtly say; "Here. Ok I'm in a rush, gotta run - Take care"  I'll stumble over a few words and say "Hey!..um, don't be a stranger!" or another statement just as effeminate and then I'll awkwardly walk back to my car kicking myself in whatever testicles I have left, wondering why I even bothered.