Deja Vu All Over Again

It’s finally happened now not once, but twice, so I think I have to move. I have to leave New York, and it’s environs because it’s just too sad. I have dated every man on the island and have started around again.

It’s true.

It’s one thing to be on a dating site and email someone and have them write back, “we went out a year ago, you never returned my calls” which proves you are not only a louse but senile as well. It happens to the best of us. There’s no particularly polite way out of that situation. I once said to a woman standing in line at a bank “So when are you due?” and she said “What are you talking about I’m in my 50s” to which I replied “Oh my god, you look so young!” I thought that was smooth. Fat and young, but ok, no one is perfect. My new parameters around asking women when they’re due is when a hand is sticking out. But ok, so you can work around that. The comeback for I blew you off a year ago and I’m still on this stupid dating site and hitting on you again just proves what ….. you’re cute but made a bad date? That’s a tricky one to get out of. But, I think, that error is normal. People who blew me off before ‘visit’ my profile all the time. Ruing their decision? I doubt it. People put up new pictures, change how much they recount loving to walk on the beach and laugh. It’s an understandable mistake.

However when you meet up with someone for a drink and think, wow, I’ve already gone out with this guy and not only did I not realize it but neither apparently did he, then, NASA, you’ve got a problem.

I had met this particular guy a few years ago, he was from Hoboken, and I had vague recollections of walking around Soho in painful heels while he looked for some particular couch, then eating Mexican food then going to a dark bar where I had to fight him off as he attempted the medical procedure called “extract your tonsils with my tongue and call it kissing”. It’s an unpleasant procedure and not enough alcohol that I could ingest has provided the right amount of anesthesia, but here I was sitting across from this guy again who had aged a few years, we all do, albeit not so well. But still, I wasn’t really sure. So I tried to probe a few questions, from little what I remembered. He lives in Hoboken, ok. Have you ever eaten Mexican? Do you own a couch? Then, have you been to this obscure dark bar before? Yes?!!! Aha! Oh you had a girlfriend lived around the corner? Hmmm. I was pretty sure but then he leaned over and said, I like to get really wild you know? And then I did know. I knew how badly my hair suddenly needed washing. Gotta go.

So I went home and started packing my bags but wait. So what. One freaky occurrence.

Fast forward to last week. I’m at a party where I know no one but the host. And him barely. He introduces me to a friend who is nice, well spoken, not foaming at the mouth or dragging his knuckles, in short, a man with potential. So the following day I ask, what about your pal there? My friend replies, oh he is just starting the process of divorce, which is code for, he’s going to barrel his way through as many women in as short a period of time as he can. That’s cool, not my thing so ok, ciao.

A few days later I’m talking to a guy online, because one apparently CAN pound one’s head against the same wall repeatedly and expect different results and NOT be insane. So we agree to meet. His picture is small but attractive although small is usually a warning signal not unlike open taxi windows. In winter. This is code from the prior passenger that the driver has bad breath, bad b.o., had a stinky sandwich recently or worse, had a stinky sandwich about 3 hours ago…..if you follow me. This was an unwritten code I learned the hard way. So we agree to meet at a given hour and as I’m leaving my house to go meet him he texts I’m early but don’t rush. Well I have a complete OCD thing with being late, even when the person is 30 minutes before the prescribed time, so I hop in a cab and arrive $12 later. There’s a guy standing there who recognizes me, doesn’t look like his tiny picture but is good looking enough, but somehow familiar. We start talking, great guy, nice guy, good guy and ….. do you see where this is going because I sure didn’t …. let’s just say I had paid $12 to meet someone I already knew.  Mr. Friend of a Friend who’s not really available because we’re in different places. You make the connection, you both laugh at it and under the table you drill your keys into your palm so that you have a mark to remember the pain of how stupid your life is.

I wonder how long it would take me to date every man in Paris, Texas?



It’s a proclivity

I”m not sure what it is with me and the men who are either gay, bi or just incredibly effusive but I seem to attract a disproportionate number of them. I have nothing against gay men or bi men or even men who are effusive however if you’re gay, I don’t have a dick. If you’re bi I don’t want to compete with 2 sexes, I am having enough trouble with younger women, women with better botox jobs, women with better boobs, women with carefully coiffed hair, women who don’t shop at H&M (you following? I could go on for a while here) and if you’re effusive, well, don’t take this wrong but you’re either really happy and from a borough with strong accents or you should be aware that that accent coupled flitting hand gestures and a singular joy for life is, at least in the New York Metro area, an indication of gay. I don’t know why. I’ve known gay men who spoke in a normal tone until they came out and then became very joyous. Bravo, I should be so lucky. Maybe they were surpressing their joy, anyway, this is not the point, the point is why do I keep getting asked to coffee by men like this. The answer is, I don’t really know. Is this me being crazy and critical – I won’t say it’s not possible – but let me elucidate by example.

I met Harry. We had spoken over the phone and he had a little of that, I don’t know how else to put it, gay inflection, but this is the tri-state area and frankly, it’s not that far off from certain Long Island accents so who knows. He was recently divorced. Lived in Brooklyn. Ok, so what’s coffee going to hurt. Nothing. I say this a lot and it hasn’t hurt yet if you don’t count emotional confusion.

I digress.

So we meet. This guy is very, let’s say, artistic. Nice enough. Flamboyant, happy, relating why his wife left him. It just wasn’t there any more, no regrets, they are still friends, yadda yadda yadda. Ok. He apologizes for being tired as he was in the west village at a singing club belting them out last night. Show tunes. Not Karoake. I know the place, except it wasn’t this exact place but I know the type. The Duplex, I spent many a champagne Sunday at the Duplex, which at the time, was a tiny hole in the wall no-one-had-heard-of-bar on Barrow St. It was frequented by the artistic singing community, often many gay men and as we called them back in the day, fag hags. That’s probably no longer PC, or probably wasn’t back then either but that’s what they were. I was probably a bit of one myself since most of our friends were gay, thereby fulfilling the requirement. Neither here nor there now. We had a few friends who, by New York standards couldn’t make it here but they damn well sure could make it anywhere else. Let’s face it, the talent pool here is so vast and deep who can win? So the Duplex was filled with remarkable waiters, para legals, cabaret-wanna-bes, drag queens, one or two people who were likely all of the above, you get the idea. It was great fun especially after a few Proseccos commonly called bad free champagne back in the day. And when The Hills were Alive with the Sound of Music, so was everyone else, we all chirped in looking lovingly at each other because the hills weren’t just alive they were also often snow tinged with cocaine. But that was the 80s therefore the scene changed a tad – I like to call it another affect of global warming. Less snow.

So, let’s just say when this guy says he was singing show tunes in the village I have a pretty clear picture of where he was the night before. Still, who likes to be judgemental. Not me. Can’t you tell? So I’m going along with it. But really, here’s a guy who either is in complete denial or just figuring things out or I don’t know what but I’m pretty sure he’s not the next Mr. Me. Chit chat chit chat so he’s kind of lonely and recently gotten a pet. Pets are nice. I have 2. I have a love hate relationship with them both, more the latter than the former but they’re cute so I cut them some slack. So what kind of dog do you have? Dog? Oh no, not a dog, I have a weasel, he replies. A weasel, yes I’ve seen them in the park, on a leash. The ferrel rats laugh at them but who’s laughing when the weasel curls up in his warm cage with the flannel dog blanket from LL Bean, that’s what I’d like to know. And then I got the answer. The rats are laughing because this poor creature’s name is Mr. Fuzzy Bottom. I’m not making that up. I’m not even fudging the names to protect the innocent because there could be more than one of those in the city. It’s a big place and if you know a guy with a weasel by this name and he’s not gay then it’s not him and that proves my theory about more than one. If he is gay then there’s no harm because it if walks like a duck and quacks like a duck….it’s not a weasel.

Mr. Fuzzy Bottom. This brings up more imagery than even I can take.

..Check please.

THAT problem

So last night was THAT date where THAT thing happens and after a nice dinner and chat it, in fact, did. As is typical with most men after they do THAT thing they fall immediately asleep which is fine because worse is when they prefer to leave, hate to eat and run, as it were, so I personally like a little company and it’s in general a good sign. Or just a tired person but I like to go with the good sign thing.

The only problem is when they fall heavily asleep and start to snore. Not mee mee mee snoring but 76 TROMBONES IN THE BIG PARADE kind of snoring. Most men say, well just turn me over, as though my less than 110 pounds is going to roll over a 180 plus pound man. Think elm tree falls on chihuahua and the dog wins. Now I’ve been married and most have-been-married or living-in-a-relationship men are somewhat subliminally trained to roll over if poked or elbowed, ever so gently of course, over the course of time as they are somewhat trained to stay on one side of the bed. Men who are never been married are less inclined toward that and therefore harder to move. What do you do? Or worse, when you get them to roll they’re still snoring away. It’s not their fault and yet as you’re laying there wishing they would die or at least go home what can you do? This is really a question. If you have the answer, please chime in.

Worse, usually snorers have sleep apnea, I guess we all do a little, but when there’s constant music and then it stops and you’re grouchy and tired and it’s 4am you start to wonder, shit, what if this guy dies? And that’s when you realize you don’t even know his last name. It’s not that you’ve rushed to THAT date and THAT thing but you’ve gotten along so great talking talking talking that it never came up. You know where he lives and what he does but somehow this fact just never came up. So you begin to imagine having to call emergency services and having them take the body out and the cops saying to you who is this and all you have to say is John I don’t know his last name because in your panic of having a snoring guy die in your bed you haven’t had the presence of mind to check his wallet. And the cops look at you like some unpaid hooker and you try to explain but they really don’t care and you think, is this really my life?

Finally at the crack of dawn the realization comes that if any sleep is to be had the couch is starting to look really good so I gave into it. The problem is the dog thinks her day has come so she hops up on it to join in a nap and I was too tired to argue so Ilet her. The problem is she snores….

Welcome to the site

I started this because so many people I know, men and women, have so many funny dating stories I thought it would be a fun place to share them. Names should be changed and very defining characteristics shifted at least minimally so as to avoid embarassment for anyone who might happen upon this which would identify that person to anyone else – you know the guy who only wears the Batman cape when he leaves the apartment, that type of thing.

Otherwise let’s share not because misery loves company but because if you take a step back, most of it its pretty funny.