Philly Date Part 2 or How to Make a Girl Think She's Fat

Drinks after dinner were a rousing success. Everything was turning out well and a date that started with so many nerves had turned into advantage: Mikey. It was nearing 2 o'clock in the morning when the tattoo girl and I left the bar and, without playing any games, she said it was too late for me to go home. In my mind, I accepted the invitation back to her apartment with the nonchalance of Dylan McKay accepting a cigarette. Of course, in reality, I probably had that crazed look in my eyes that a dog gets when he spots the dog park up ahead.

We got in and threw on some TV so as not to be too obvious, but before Jon Stewart had reached his first guest, we were hurrying upstairs to her room. Fantastic! I felt like I was a teenager in an Axe commercial! Everything was going good until about 20 minutes in when I hear the sound of the night table drawer opening. Damnitt. She reached back and smiled.

Now, in this situation, about 90 percent of the men out there, and probably 100 percent of the men she's dated, strip naked like a 7 year-old at a pool party. I, much to my chagrin, am wired differently. Call me old-fashioned - or more appropriately the product of 72 years of Catholic school - but I don't do that type of stuff on a first date. It's never been my style. I shook my head and uttered a "Nahhh" and nothing else. The look I got back was priceless - yet kind of familiar. I've been in this spot before with girls and I must say it is quite funny. I kind of (read: whole-heartedly), enjoy watching the axis of power shift from the woman, who's never before heard the word 'no" and holds the power of sex over men like an Iranian hostage, to little old me in a matter of a minute. Really, if I could make a YouTube montage of these moments I would and tag it "shock-and-awe." In reality, this shouldn't be that surprising. I'm just holding off on a first date. Girls do it all the time. But for a guy to do this? Let's say it always leads to the girl's brain short-circuiting.

We continuing on for a few more minutes or so before she only half-jokingly asked "What, am I too fat for you?" I smiled and reassured my 125 pound date that I was indeed very into her, it just wasn't my thing. This didn't matter though. It was like telling her 2 + 2 = chicken. The best thing about this situation wasn't the reaction, though. It was that this guaranteed a follow-up date for me. In fact this guaranteed a month of dates, a sluttier dress the next time we go out, an eventual cat-suit and hand-cuffs somewhere along the way and at least a 90-minute cardio session the minute I left the following morning. In fact I bet she ate four leaves of lettuce all week. Weather she truly likes me or not is secondary in her mind. I am now a conquest and I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Nothing makes a girl go crazy like a guy turning down sex. Trust me.


Warning: Guys, do not attempt to do the preceding in an attempt at gaining the upper hand with a woman without practicing first. I'm serious. You'll pull a groin muscle or something. And when you say no, you got to believe it like the way Obama believes he's a Christian. I kid! I kid! I love that guy.

Philly Date Part 1

Last I wrote, I was fresh off some shenanigans in The City of Love. I had just met the groovy tattoo girl and had that shit-eating grin on my face the whole ride back home. It stood there until I pulled into my driveway and realized the new girl was almost two hours away and I probably wasn't going to see her again. This chick had one night fling written all over her - probably in a tattoo somewhere else on her body - but I'm supposed to be trying to find a wifey despite any obstacles in my way. Distance, age, family, STDs be damned! Nothing can hold Mikey back!

I waited a few days and called. After a week of random return texts (Never a phone call. Welcome to dating in 2010.) which always came at the tail end of her being out drinking, I was about to give up. I figured she wasn't interested, but maybe, if I dared her to go on a date with a Jersey shore guy from far away - it would work. Sometimes corny crap like that works. Espeically when you have to convince girls that you don't do this on your weekends. (btw, that's not a joke. These people exist, quite literally, on my street). I made my cute proposal and, much to my surprise, she took the challenge.

I was a bit nervous since I felt like I had twisted her arm into a date. I should have been fine since we had spent a whole night out before - and I had fondled the funbags - but there were lots of alcohol and friends easing that night's antics. Now it was showtime. The first opportunity to embarrass myself came pretty early. No sooner did we walk into sushi dinner did I have to excuse myself. I had borrowed my buddy's jacket for the night and the zipper was stuck all the way up around my neck. Not cool North Face, not cool... Unhappy with the prospect of looking like a turtle all night, I retreated to the "swanky communal bathroom" and fought with my jacket solo-style ala an invisible Patrick Swayze fighting his killer in Ghost. Once again, the ghost was coming out on top. With beads of sweat coming down my face, I finally popped that jacket open like Hulk Hogan ripping through a tight yellow tank top - much to the delight of this large girl watching and giggling at me the whole time. Thanks, I'll remember that when your muffin-topped high heel gets caught in a sewer grate on the way out.

About ten minutes later I was back upstairs trying to look cool and collected. It is usually in times like this that I wonder WWJD? As in, What would Justin Timberlake Do? Just as I was about to explain my absence, she shoved a cup of Sake in my face and said, "Cheers!" Ahhhh, sake. Nothing like a miniature cup of Windex to ease the mood. It was time for me to relax. And I did.

Before I knew it, two hours had passed. Dinner was over and tattoo chick suggested some drinks at a neighboring Mexican bar. I felt some momentum gaining here. Turns out she was a school teacher in one of those Dangerous Minds types of school in Philadellphia. She spent most of her days breaking up fights and dealing with children years behind in their studies. Being someone who works with the same crowd in NY, we had plenty to chat about. "Down with the system! Down with poverty! Down with Fox..." ya know, the normal liberal banter. Back and forth we went for another hour or so. I was in the zone. I knew I had this in the bag. What exactly "this" was, I didn't know, but when we left El Vez, I was getting a repeat invite back to her place. And that is when the fun started - for me at least.

My Wingman.

Every guy has his wingman. No exception here. However, I like to think I have the best wingman out there. He's one of my best friends from college who has quite literally been a lifesaver for me.* Separately, we are simply awkward, but together we are better than Maverick and Goose in a smokey bar surrounded by 30 homosexual men. Seriously, my buddy George has lent a hand in about half the girls in my life. You see, I have a small problem.

Despite the fact that I possess an incredible ability to mindlessly carry a conversation on any subject a girl speaks of,** I am deathly afraid of approaching a girl. Like first day of Kindergarten scared. If I see a cute girl at the bar do you know what I do? I stare. I stare and conjure up every excuse not to walk over. You might wonder how I get dates. Simple. I either go on Match, wait for a drunk girl to approach me, or have a friend start up a conversation. I am, by all admission, a little bitch.

This is where George comes in. The guy approaches anything - high school girls, milfs, the chick behind the Taco Bell counter about to serve us a Chalupa. He decided a few years ago he just doesn't care anymore. He set himself free. He doesn't know how many times he has struck out - nor does he care. This obliviousness has benefited him greatly. And, as a result, it has benefited me in cities ranging from Toledo to Charleston and all sections of New Jersey.

George hasn't yet helped me out in the city of Philadelphia, but that was only because we hadn't hung out there - until Saturday night.

It was our friend's birthday and a bunch of us surprised her with a group outing in Philly. It was a perfect weekend to go bar hopping throughout the City of Brotherly Love. Our journey eventually placed us at a diner/bar/dancefloor called the Silk City Diner. It was an old-fashioned beat-up diner with a dance floor attached which had some surprisingly good music playing. Although the place was quite novel, it seemed to attract the type of crowd that not only would dance to a Miley Cyrus song, but might actually be in class with her. Whatever. Four of us guys squeezed ourselves into this one diner booth and proceeded to down some PBR when, walking right past us, went this one cute blonde with a tattoo covering her whole upper arm. George knows I dig tattoos.

"Hey! It's my friends birthday! Aren't you going to wish him a Happy Birthday?"
"Huh?"
This girl looked awfully confused. When she twirled around there was more than a hint of stink eye in her face. Rather sardonically she stated, "Uh, Happy Birthday." and proceeded walking.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa... Come and sit down. Ask him how old he is."

I was motioning for George to cut it out. I felt some snappy sarcastic rejection coming on. Unlike George, I don't have the 'I don't give an F demeanor.' I slinked back in my plastic booth, waiting for the Philly-girl charm to spew forth, when she turned around again looking kind of bemused and said, "So how old are you Mr. Ricardo?"

She sat down, and that was that.

The next morning I found myself waking up on a small couch with what felt like 11 bulging disks in the space of my lower back. My buddies had her promise not to harvest my organs when she took me back to her place in a cab - or to at least give them a cut of the proceeds. As I fumbled through the kitchen looking for any sign of hydration, I heard her come downstairs to greet me. Much to my delight, she looked 82% similar to what I had remembered her looking the night before.

We had some laughs and she mentioned she didn't expect me to call, but I truly wanted her number. I had a ton of fun Saturday night. There were loads of stupid dances with my friends, walks to various shady bars and a flirtacious debate about something or other to do with being vegetarian that led directy to some sloppy drunk second base action on Gary Coleman's personal pull-out couch.

When my twisted back and I stepped out onto South Street in search of the Mariot that I was supposed to be at, I honestly hoped I'd be making a return trip. There is something really groovy about this girl. She's funny and she was wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt sans bra in the morning that made me smile like a fat kid with a doughnut.

I returned to the hotel to find my friends all eating at the cafeteria ready to make fun of me for various things I had done the night before. I wasn't too concerned though; I had just received a text from my groovy tattoo girl saying she hoped I had found my hotel safely.

Another assist from George!

** Despite wearing more madra shorts and sandals than Jack Johnson, I can't swim. Of course, this didn't stop a younger Mikey from entering the water during Spring Break in Daytona of '02. Lucky for me, George knows how to pull someone to shore.

** Much easier than you think. Basically, ask questions that would allow a girl to talk more about herself while dropping a line that makes you seem clever and conflicted. i.e. Make the Robert Pattison, "I just smelled a wet fart face" and utter something totally nonsensical like, "It's a paradox of the highest order of lies ...")

Anthroplogie.

Greetings to my fellow singleites–and married folk who read for a reminder why they should never attempt dating again. That, and the 30 pounds of paunch you've added while watching Dancing With the Stars over the past 4 years with your spouse is another reason. :) Life ran me ragged, but I'm back on with hopefully some more chuckles for us all!

Before I run down what I've been up to in Philly, I'd like to mention a total find in terms of potential mates per square foot. Moreover, it lies virtually undiscovered by men. I found a place where the women are educated, charmingly vocal, past their clubbing days, and mildly sexy (or unknowingly sexy - my favorite level of sexiness because this allows for a guy to steal a girl totally out of his league and knock her up before she realizes her potential) The place is called Anthrolpologie. Yes, the clothing store.

Now, I admit, the ladies that shop here probably don't own a Yankee hat, or have ever seen Chappelle's Show. Most of these ladies have never drank alone on a Friday night while watching Seinfled and woke up the next morning cuddling a box of Frosted Flakes feeling quite fulfilled... BUT, they totally would listen to you talk about it. And they might even be willing to try the experience if you worded it as some ironic date night that ended with black and white photography of something mundane in your kitchen. These women are sweet. They like lace and girls' nights out where everyone has a bottle of wine and shares pictures of their puppies.

It's not surefire. You can't spend too much time in the store, lest you and your cargo shorts wearing self look a bit creepy (tip: have an item in hand for mom). You also must strap your ballsack on and approach the girl in a most unassuming way (without the aid of alcohol mind you), but trust me, the available talent is surprising. Its virgin grounds haven't been touched by other overzealous men showcasing their sensitive side like at the dogpark. It's similar to the first baseball scout to arrive in Cuba. High risk, high reward.

Go forth!

Not Dead!

Just wanted to let you readers know I'm not dead, just busy.. I spent some time in Philly recently and I shall have more lame stories by the end of the week!

Outtakes 4

I just came across some internet drivel stating Jessica Simpson was spotted out (again) with Billy Corgan of Smashing Pumpkins fame (can we really call it fame, though? Smashing Pumpkins' heydey was synonymous with the heydey of Wayne's World skits and Hangin' with Mr. Cooper reruns). She explained that whenever she needs a shoulder to cry on, she turns to Billy. She goes on to say that, although they are just friends, "he is a loyal friend - a VERY loyal friend." Of course, this is a little different than how Corgan sees it.

Still, the question begs.... Could it possible that the guy, who I'm still not positive didn't star alongside Vicki from Small Wonder, has managed to pull off the near impossible guyfriend-to-cry-to turned lover trick with one of the hottest celebrities of the past 15 years? This guy?! I wouldn't want Billy Corgan within 20 yards of a school bus stop and now you're telling me he might be heavy petting Sexual Napalm?!

I don't usually follow stuff like this, but I'll make an exception. We've all been there and tried this move (usually with a girl well out of our league). In fact, between the years of 1997-2002 this was my only move. There wasn't a girl who hadn't cried on Mikey's shoulder in my hopes that I could see some boobage during the consolation process. I'm all for any guy who can do it.

Here's to you, Billy Corgan!

Results of a Meeting

* my apologies for not hitting the 2 post per month minimum last month :)

Mikey, how did the meeting with the Brazilian go?
Glad you asked.

Cue generic feminine acoustic song from Gossip Girl.

We stood, seconds apart, on her mom's creaky brownstone porch - wait, let's go old school. Cue On Bended Knee from Boyz II Men. Much better.

We stood, seconds apart, on her mom's creaky brownstone porch when we locked eyes for the first time since that fateful letter was sent. With a thud, she dropped her purse and darted toward my rain drenched body (I had puffy storm clouds flown in for effect.) Both of her hands held up her Cinderella-like dress up so she could skip over the rain puddles collected on the ground. I reached out and gave her my best Ryan Gosling embrace - making sure to grab her face with not one, but two hands - ya know, for the extra emphatic kiss. With a fierce disposition I declared all my -- actually she's still with her guy.

What the f man! I could have sworn something was up. Oh well. She let me know sometime at the :38 minute mark of our meeting at Applebee's - nothing says romance like a meeting at "The Neighborhood Place." (btw Applebee's, where do you get off charging nine dollars for spiked Kool-Aid? If you truly were the Neighborhood Place, you'd call it Jungle Juice and charge me two bucks for a red plastic cup). I actually did have a good time, though. I even had a chance attend some random party after drinks where I did what I do best - observe other people's comic behavior.

As we were walking up the driveway to the house where said party was occurring, the door swung open and out came the smell of stale beer followed by a non-descript white guy in khaki cargo shorts and a t-shirt. Perfectly normal January clothes. The Brazilian ran up to this generic fellow, jumped in his arms and yelled TOOOM!! He tempered his true excitement to see her with a nonchalant "Hey babe." Then, turning to me, he shook my hand with an equally nonchalant "Hey bro, I'm Tom." I stammered back with a sheepish, "Hey, I'm Mikey."

As our eyes locked, we both knew what was going through the other guy's mind. It was almost like in There's Something about Mary where Mary has no idea of all the guys who are trying to get with her, yet they all know, and subsequently want to stab each other in the eyes with butter knives. I waited till a bit later to ask the Brazilian how long ago Tom was infatuated with her. She replied rather surprisingly, "Wow, how did you know? It was waaaaay long ago, back in college."
Sure.

Let me tell you ladies something. When a guy friend of yours tries to take things to another level and you inevitibally turn him down because you see him as a brother or some equally bullshit excuse, we rarely get over it (After all, the real reason which we don't want to admit to ourselves, is that you can't fathom seeing us naked without giggling in amusement). I would say we don't get over it till we find a firm significant other. I should know. I am currently a "Tom" to about 14 different girls from college. Furthermore, us "Toms" of the world can sniff out another guy's true intentions like Southwest can sniff out a fat man in crowded plane. Knowing this, I figured it was only a matter of time before Tom informed her of my true intentions for meeting up. Damn you, Tom! Don't hate because I may have a 3 percent chance.

The rest of the night played out in typical friend fashion. I wound up dropping her off back at her mom's place with a joint promise to keep in better touch with each other. My buddies will natrually criticize me for wasting a Saturday night, but you really never know. Dating is like being a CSI detective. You have to pursue all possible leads :).

Outtakes 3

Apparently this week is Doppleganger week on Facebook. I have seen a few of my female friends post this in their status messages:

It's Doppelgänger week on Facebook; change your profile picture to someone famous (actor, musician, athlete, etc.) you have been told you look like. After you update your profile with your twin or switched at birth photo then cut/paste this to your status.

The very limits of my imagination are stretched as I see girl after girl* post pictures of who they'd look like if said celebrity were to fall off a tree and hit multiple branches on the way down.

Never be alarmed at a woman's need to compete with other women in a totally trivial way.**

*Chances are these are also the same girls that have given up on the time honored tradition of smiling for a photo in lieu of a kissy face/peace sign.

**I should point out that although the phenomona of comparing who you look like to a celebrity is exclusively a female thing, this does have a male equivalent. It's basically the guy who wears tight Ed Hardy t-shirts

Prepping for a Meeting

So I shot the Brazilian a short e-mail. The innocuous type that invariably leads to the all familiar "Hey Stranger!" response. I really hate "Hey Stranger!" responses. They reek of flirtaciousness (after all, has any guy ever shot another guy friend a "Hey Stranger" text), yet they never fully evolve into "Hey Sexy!" They are the blue balls of opening line greetings.

After a few short catching up e-mails, she asked if I wanted to meet up... Really? She wants to meet up? Grab dinner? I'm not sure if she's aware, but we don't exactly live down the street from each other. I smell something rotten and odd. Like four day old Spicy Tuna Roll from Shop-Rite.

A younger Mikey would have been ecstatic at the opportunity to meet up with someone that got away. I'd be tearing open the giftpack of BRUTE cologne, shining up the Sketchers, buying the extra hold Suave mousse and waxing the old Firebird. But this isn't 1999. I've dated roughly 4,480 crazies since then, and I'm going into this with more than a modicum of wariness.

The Silver Bullet & Facebook Stalking

Myth has it that the famed silver bullet is the one bullet in a chamber that can kill a werewolf. In stories, you never use it until you have a clear shot at your target, lest you waste it. Similarly, when it comes to talking to women from your past, you never "randomly bump into them" until you have the perfect opportunity. You must be patient for that right time in her life (when she's single or at least not whoring it up at the Jersey shore) to fire off that silver bullet. After all, two random e-mails might bring about a smidge of creeeeeepyyyy.

With that being said, over the past 7 months I've been keeping a watchful eye on what the Brazilian (backstory) has been up to. This includes a little old-fashioned Facebook stalking as well as having a tracker on my art portfolio page which tells me the IP addresses of all its visitors. It's helpful for recognizing who is interested in my artwork - or what girl is checking me out. Stop. This is not weird. I've just been meticulous and thorough... deliberate if you must. (I like these words. They make me sound more like General MacArthur advancing on the Pacific and less a teenage following his crush from class to class.)

Every now and then, I've noticed a certain visitor from London checking the page out. Every time she does this, I look at her Facebook profile picture to see if her other half is still in the picture. It's always been, until yesterday.

I don't know what this means. This could be coincidence. Perhaps she grew tired of her current facial expression. Maybe she is need of a killer piece of art...
OR
Maybe she's home for the holidays and lonely and horny and thinking about how much she hates that in London everyone smells like tea and has bad breath, and her boyfriend is 10 years older than her and owns more cardigans than Mr. Rodgers and she wants to break up with him and she always wondered what would have happened if she got to know Mikey a little bit better and had gone to the Museum with him and then gotten hopped up on some Yellowtail enough to make some semi-regrettable decisions and she's too scared to ask so she just keeps looking at my profile...

Maybe?

Listen, it's possible. And I can't hold onto this silver bullet any longer. Time to fire away a "Hey! What's goin on?" message.