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...
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, April 10, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, April 6, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
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:
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.
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