Diary of a Disillusioned Dater

The Girl Who Cried Cute

2009-12-16T15:10:00.000-05:00

I think we can all agree that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But when the beholder in question has not the slightest ability to gauge someone's level of physical attractiveness, that beholder's perception of said physical attractiveness should not be trusted. It took me two dates with two different women that were described to me as "cute" by one such beholder to realize this.

When I demanded to see a picture the third time she tried to set me up last night, I was sent a photo of a woman who resembled Susan Boyle. "It's not a great picture," and "She's cute in person," were what I thought I heard this so called friend say before I told her that I'd pass. I just wanted to get off the phone as quickly as possible until she hit me with:

"No offense, but you're not exactly Brad Pitt."

Now it was on.

"I never claimed to be Brad Pitt, but I'm a lot closer to him than your friends are to Angelina Jolie," I told her.

"So all my friends are ugly then?"

"No. Just the ones you've tried to set me up with."

"Do you realize what a jerk you sound like?"

"You basically told me I was a troll, and now I'm a jerk because I'm not attracted to your friends?"

"I didn't say you were a troll. I said you weren't Brad Pitt."

"So if I'm not a troll and I'm not Brad Pitt, what am I?"

"You're cute," she said.

I liked it better when I thought she thought I was a troll.

THE F-WORD

2009-12-05T15:40:00.005-05:00

I pride myself on being a gentleman on my dates. I'm always on time, I open doors, I don't engage in inappropriate touching, I pay, and I don't burp or fart. I think that puts me in the top five percent of eligible New York bachelors. So I was a bit shocked to learn from the friend who set us up of my recent date's displeasure with my excessive use of the f-word during our time together.

"Who uses that word on a first date?" he wanted to know.

"She started it."

"How?"

"We started talking about hand sanitizers and she said she uses them all day because the people she deals with at work are disgusting. I told her that I'm also OCD about Purelling, but I never feel totally clean after using it."

"So how do you get from that to what you said?"

"I told her I read an article about how hand sanitizers are completely ineffective at killing the bacteria in feces, and that feces was pretty much the main reason I used hand sanitizer. "

"And what'd she say?"

"She kinda nodded and said, 'Oh, really.'"

"You couldn't tell from that that she was turned off?"

"Guess I read her wrong."

"She thinks you're obsessed with germs and...christ, fuckin' feces. What's wrong with you?"

"She said that she shakes a lot of hands for work, and I said that five out of six people don't wash their hands after they use the bathroom. So over eighty percent of the hands she's shaking probably have fe--- Yeah, I see your point."

"See a professional about that, man," he said before hanging up.

I would, but I'd probably have to shake their hand first.

ISN'T IT ROMANTIC?

2009-12-02T11:33:00.001-05:00

Or just a little cringe inducing and embarrassing? I vote for choice B.

MAN BREATH

2009-12-01T09:56:00.003-05:00

I stopped showering before first dates a long time ago. I remember when I was in my twenties and early thirties, I'd leave work early on the day of a date to rush home and soap myself down so I could feel nice and fresh. Now, if there's no sweat before a date, there's no shower. I do, however, make sure I'm presentable: I do my Mr. Rogers routine and change from my sneakers to my shoes before I leave. I brush my hair, make sure there's nothing in my teeth or in my nose, and I suck on a Tic-Tac, Altoid, or whatever else I have handy. So I don't think it's unreasonable for me to expect the same of a woman who's meeting me for an after work cup of coffee.

In short, she was nothing to look at, perfectly nice, but the breath...oh the breath! It wasn't the type of halitosis resulting from not eating all day, or from eating something spicy. It was MAN BREATH! The type that I always envisioned Sipowicz from NYPD Blue having, or a brand of foul smelling respiration emanating from some old guy sitting on the back of a bus. I tried to stay out of it's path, but every time I moved my head slightly, it found me like a heat seeking missile made entirely of dirty socks that had just come off the feet of someone who'd run a marathon in them and then filled them with dog shit.

When we left the cafe and were about to part ways, I felt like offering her a Tic-Tac, but I didn't want to embarrass her. I doubt a little one calorie breath mint would have done the job required of a colonic anyway. This breath started way down deep and needed to be destroyed at the source like the Death Star in Star Wars.

THE ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE

2009-11-16T17:43:00.002-05:00

Every so often, whenever I read through old blog posts and realize how bitter I've become, I like to pause for a moment and think of things for which I'm actually grateful. And since we're so close to Thanksgiving, I figured now would be as good a time as any to be appreciative of the wonderful gifts I've been given. So here are a few of the things I'm thankful for (in no particular order):

- The engraved sign hanging on the bathroom door in my doctor's office that reads: "PLEASE DO NOT URINATE WITHOUT PERMISSION!"

- The Chinese waiter at dinner last weekend who kept referring to me as "gentleman" and my friend as "lady" - as in: "You like some more water, gentleman? How 'bout you, lady?"

- Being able to watch my eighty-year-old great aunt try and park her car.

- and this commercial:

Like I Need More Excuses Not To Leave The House

2009-11-02T18:02:00.000-05:00

I don't remember ever seeing as many people in Halloween costumes as I did on Saturday night. Maybe it's because Saturday night was the first time I've left the house on Halloween in I think, ever. I don't get the whole dressing up thing and I'd never go to a party where I was required to wear a costume, but if that's your thing, then god bless you. Maybe I'm a smug, cynical douchebag who thinks he's too cool for dress up, but I just think it's kinda silly. So by the time I was done rolling my eyes at the fifth Superman with the sock enhanced crotch I'd seen in as many minutes, I barely had the energy to do the same at the gay pirate who couldn't figure out how to work the Metrocard machine. But I mustered up the strength because, well, as I said above - that's just downright silly.

I saw a fair share of women in military uniforms. I wasn't aware that "push-up" bras (or as I like to call them , "Please, Please, Please Look At My Tits and Think They're Really This Big" bras) were standard issue nowadays, but you live and learn. I thought the boyfriend/girlfriend duo dressed respectively in a Mets and Yankees Jersey and cap were trying too hard to be cute, and I wanted to tell the guy I saw in drag to just go home, if he wasn't even gonna try a little.

I didn't want to actually smack anyone until I got on the packed train and was forced to listen to a loud, balding, sweaty guy dressed as John Cusack from "Say Anything." I only know who he was supposed to be because loud, bald, sweaty guy announced it to like five different people after he bragged to each of them about how drunk he was gonna get later. I just saw some schmuck in a trench coat holding a boom box. I don't even remember if I ever saw "Say Anything," but apparently it's cool to like that movie for some reason. I'm pretty sure John Cusack didn't have either a severe glandular problem, or Malaria, in that film, so I think it's understandable that I didn't get the costume given all the sweating.

At some point during the ride, loud, bald, sweaty guy became loud, bald, sweaty, bloody guy when he cut his hand on his boom box and started dripping blood on the floor. I was so annoyed by his loud, bald, sweatiness that I wanted to scream at him like I was his alcoholic father: "You see what happens when you carry stupid shit around like a boom box, you fucking imbecile?! We're packed in here like sardines and you're walking around with a radio from the eighties? What the fuck is wrong with you? If you need props and have to explain your costume, then it's stupid! Next Halloween you're staying home!" When the 1989 John Cusack impersonator couldn't find a tissue, he began to suck on the cut and soon had blood all over his mouth. For the next ten minutes, all I heard was, "Is it on my face? Seriously. Is it on my face?" I knew then I'd definitely be staying home next Halloween.

But I'm glad I went out this Halloween. On what other night of the year could I see four different "Shirtless Jdate Guy" costumes? Yes, that's a real costume - I think. These were guys just walking around in jeans and no shirts. There was no logical explanation for them not to be wearing shirts other than the fact they were in costume, and given that they had nothing else to offer besides shirtlessness, I just assumed they were dressed (or not dressed in this case) as "Shirtless Jdate Guys." The only thing missing was a cardboard cut out of a profile they could stick their faces in, in which they list their heights at least four inches taller than they actually are, and lie about how much money they make. I can only hope that these guys went to parties where they found women in "46 But List Their Ages As 34 To Come Up In Searches" costumes. I hear those are very popular.

The Manhattanite

2009-10-28T11:57:00.004-04:00

A long while back, I IM'd some woman on Jdate. I remember our conversation not only because it was enraging, but because that IM session was one of maybe ten I'd had during my entire Jdate career. And ten is probably being generous - unless getting declined counts as having an IM session with a woman, in which case I've had many more. But what triggered my memory of the instant messaging session in question was having almost the exact same conversation with the same woman on the phone last night.

I'd gotten this woman's number from a friend who had gotten the number from her friend who had apparently found the number scribbled on a piece of toilet paper that got stuck to the bottom of her shoe while she was peeing on the seat in a Starbucks bathroom. I can think of no other logical explanation since that appears to be how much thought was put into this set-up by the parties involved.

Though the IM exchange with this woman was at least two years ago, I was almost immediately overcome by a feeling of deja Jdate.

"So where in the city did you grow up?" she asked.

"Brooklyn," I said.

"Brooklyn isn't the city," she said, and I knew right then by her condescending, "You're Bridge and Tunnel trash and I'm not" tone that I'd spoken to this shithead once before. I quickly ran to my computer and opened the email my friend sent me containing this woman's picture. I knew that Jewish nose looked familiar.

"It's a borough of New York City," I responded, wondering why I was again defending myself to this elitist schmuck - only now I was speaking the words instead of typing them angrily on my keyboard.

"Technically, I suppose. But I don't consider Brooklyn 'The City.'"

"Not technically. It's an actual borough. I know. I grew up there."

"You know what I mean. It's not Manhattan."

"That's why they call it Brooklyn. So I take it you grew up in Manhattan," I said, pretending we'd never spoken before.

"Born and bred," she said proudly.

"Uh huh. So do you only date guys who grew up in Manhattan?" I asked, hoping she'd say yes and hang up on me.

"No, but there's something to be said for native Manhattanites."

Like what? You're all obnoxious douchebags with big noses who given your ages and extremely average looks shouldn't be so fucking picky?... Oh wait, that's just you!

"I actually enjoyed growing up in Brooklyn. Some of my fondest memories are from that time in my life. Brooklyn was great," I said before I told myself to stop trying to prove to her that I'm worthy of her attention.

"Yeah, well, do you have any other pictures you can send me?" she asked, putting to rest any doubt that this was the same woman from Jdate. I remember her asking me the same thing over two years ago. "I have a certain type of look that I like. Do you have any pictures where I can see you more clearly? "

Sure. And do you have any pictures in which your face doesn't look like it has a raging hard-on? YOU have a certain look you're into? So do I, and the "before" model in a rhinoplasty ad ain't it. Why didn't your fancy Manhattan daddy take you to a fancy Manhattan plastic surgeon when you were a teenager, or why didn't he at least get you Photoshop lessons? These were all things I wish I had typed to her over two years ago and now I was wishing I had the balls to say to her on the phone.

Instead, I asked: "Are you on Jdate?"

"Yeah, are you? Do you have other pictures on there?"

"No."

"No, you're not on Jdate, or no you don't have other pictures on there?"

No, I don't want to talk to you anymore or ever again.

J-JOBS

2009-10-15T09:02:00.000-04:00

I didn't think I'd see or hear anything sadder this week than what I witnessed at a Lenny Kravitz concert on Monday night. As twelve-hundred sweaty people pushed and shoved each other so that they could record the show on their iPhones and Blackberries and be the very first of their friends to post it on Facebook, I noticed two women practically raping one of the event staff guys. They were dressed in their best groupie uniforms - tight jeans, heels, and tit- revealing tops - and they were molesting the Irving Plaza employee in an effort to get closer to the stage, get noticed by Lenny Kravitz and I guess have him fall in love with them, or whatever it is groupies think is gonna happen after they double-team rock stars. Rubbing up against the crowd control guy might have actually gotten them closer to the stage, or maybe even backstage, if these skanks were remotely attractive...and not fifty-years-old. I watched as the guy they were trying to bribe with their pre-geriatric sexual advances backed away as if to say, "I don't wanna fuck you two! Why would Helen Willis' son want to?" The anger I felt watching the two menopausal nymphos trying to manipulate some poor guy to get what they wanted, turned to pity as I watched them strike out with yet another of the venue's employees. But my anger quickly resurfaced as my view of the stage became obstructed by two giant Israeli dudes who insisted on treating those of us stuck behind them to a fifteen-minute air guitar duet, during which they serenaded and high-fived each other. I got so caught up in the utter gayness of it all that I thought about feeling up the event staff guy to get him to throw the two douches out.

After the concert, the image of the grandmas throwing themselves at some random stranger stuck with me and I couldn't imagine a more cringe inducing display of desperation and a cry for attention until I spoke to my friend last night. He told me about a girl he's been dating whose roommate blows every guy she goes out with from Jdate. I resisted the urge to ask for her screen name, as my friend explained to me why the woman with whom his new girlfriend shares an apartment constantly has her mouth full.

"She thinks it's the only way she can get guys to call after the first date. And if they don't call, they'll at least remember the blow job," he told me.

I wondered if the Geritol groupies began their careers by sucking off men they met from personal ads in the Penny Saver or from 1-900 chat lines, or whatever the 1980s equivalent of online dating was. And if so, would the Jdate Blow Job Girl inevitably wind up being rejected by a roadie at some concert she showed up to inappropriately dressed twenty-years from now?

I think the only ones in this story who had any meaningful kind of connection were the two Israelis. I'm sure when they blew each other after the concert it was true love.

BERTA

2009-09-21T15:27:00.000-04:00

Three people in as many weeks have told me I'm smart for not being married. If these people were unhappily wed guys in their thirties or forties with obnoxious little kids and wives with fat asses, I probably wouldn't have remembered what they said. I've heard the cries of regretful married men too many times. But these anti-marriage advocates are women over sixty-five. One is ninety-four. I didn't really have the opportunity to question the two younger Golden Girls about why they're so opposed to the sacrament of holy matrimony, but I did ask the ninety-four year old. She was my grandmother's hospital roommate until late Saturday afternoon when I came to visit.

I walked into the hospital room and saw Berta dressed in her best old lady suit and matching hat, sitting in a chair next to her hospital bed with her purse on her lap . I barely had time to kiss my grandmother hello before Berta let me know she was pissed.

"Do you believe I'm waiting two hours for the ambulance to come to take me for my rehab? Two hours!" she said in some kind of accent I couldn't quite make out.

"Yeah, well. I'm sure they're on their way," I said, trying to move past her so I could get back to my grandmother.

"This is some racket they run here. They're all in cahoots. The doctors, the nurses, the ambulance company...and they want me to write them a check for the ambulance."

The next thing I knew, I was writing a $55 check to First Response Ambulette because Berta couldn't read the name of the company off the napkin that the nurse had written it on.

"What's an ambulette?" she asked.

"I guess it's kind of like an ambulance, but smaller. Maybe with less equipment inside. I don't really know," I said.

"I'll give them an ambulette alright. They won't take me unless they have the check, but I'll just stop payment. That's all. Two hours they making me wait. They could wait to get paid too."

"Sure, you could do that," I said, feeling guilty that I'd spent the first few minutes of my visit to my grandmother dealing with a stranger's ambulette issues.

"They said I could pay by credit card, but I'm 94 years-old and I never had a credit card. That's what's wrong with today's society. People buy things without money. If I wanna buy something, I buy with money. Pssht, with credit cards they want me to pay."

"Mmm Hmmm..."

"They're all crooks. I wouldn't be surprised if Palm Gardens doesn't even know I'm coming."

And then the next thing I knew, I was calling Palm Gardens nursing home to make sure they were expecting Berta. I thought about explaining to Berta that the odds of an entire nursing staff and an ambulette company conspiring to steal fifty-five bucks from her were slim. But before I could, she said: "You're a nice boy. Are you married?"

"Nope," I said.

"You're smart," she grumbled.

"You think so? Is marriage that bad?"

"Ah, the women out there today," she said as she waved her arm at me in disgust. "Better to stay single."

I wanted to ask her if she'd been reading my blog when the ambulette driver walked in. She gave him a good five minutes of shit for being two hours late and accused him of being involved in the big scheme to steal $55 off her.

"I'm just a driver," the ambulette guy said in his defense. "Whatchoo complainin' 'bout really isn't my...I mean this isn't like my..."

He struggled to find the word and I could see him sweating a little. Berta had gotten him so flustered that he forgot how to say "responsibility," if he ever knew the word to begin with. Instead, he regrouped and said, "this isn't my, you know, my liaison."

I thought for sure Berta would tear the guy a new one for not having a basic grasp of the English language. "People can't speak English in today's society," I could hear her saying in my mind. "I wasn't even born here and my English is better than yours, you fuckin' idiot!" I felt a little bad for the guy. But after I tried to intervene to make sure the driver knew where to take her, and he told me to mind my own business, I wanted Berta to abuse the dumb illiterate bastard. Instead, she kept complaining about how crooked everyone there was, as they rolled her out of the room tied to a gurney.

I wanted to go after her and ask her why exactly she was so anti-marriage. I thought a 94 year-old woman has to have some pearls of wisdom to share. But Berta was too busy carrying on and accusing the staff of larceny.

I think Ol' Bertie was so angry at the nurses and the ambulette company that she didn't really want to educate me anyway. She probably thought that teaching someone else's grandson about life wasn't her liaison.

Ménage à true?

2009-09-09T00:06:00.000-04:00

The closest I've ever come to being involved in a three-way was when I got a hand job from an ex-girlfriend while she was on the phone with a friend. None of my close friends have ever been with more than one chick at a time because if they were, I know I'd have heard about it many, many, many times.

So when this guy I kinda sorta know kept bragging to me this weekend about the "two hottties" he "banged last night," I was doubtful to say the least. I've been to plenty of social gatherings during which I've wound up talking to some drunk guy who feels the need to confess his sexual exploits to me, either real or imagined. "I was just with this Puerto-Rican chick," "Dude, you should have seen this piece of ass I went out with the other day," "You ever do a Saudi Arabian chick? You should!" are all things I've been forced to listen to while standing next to some guy at some party. When I don't know these so called men, I usually give them the benefit of the doubt and just assume they're telling the truth. But when a guy, who I have trouble believing has ever had sex with anyone, tells me he had a ménage with two of the best looking women I've seen in a while, I'm less inclined to extend him that same courtesy.

"What? You don't believe me?" he asked after he told me what he did with the ladies in question.

"Why shouldn't I believe you?" I said.

"I don't know. You seem kinda suspicious."

"Me, suspicious? Nah. Why? Because I can't imagine any woman, let alone two at a time, wanting to so much as talk to you?" I thought, but actually said: "No. Not at all."

"You want me to ask them to come over?"

"You're goddamn right I do! I want to hear both of these women say that they fucked you last night in an actual three-way, and that neither one of them was paid to do so," I thought, but actually said: "I believe you, man. It's cool."

He walked away angry and I wondered why he needed so desperately for me to believe him, or why the other guys in their thirties and forties at the other parties needed to prove how cool they were. Are they stuck in a state of arrested development so severe that they can't move beyond the "Dude, smell my finger" stage of their sexual development? Or am I so goddamn cool that guys just wanna impress me? Maybe they know that that hand job/phone call was the closest thing any of us have gotten to a three-way, and they want me as their leader.

WHAT I LEARNED THIS WEEKEND

2009-08-31T11:17:00.002-04:00

1. There's a reason I don't usually talk to strangers.

I was trying to be polite when the old Jew who sat next to me in the park started babbling about the state of the world in which we live - at least I thought he was an old Jew until he blamed 9/11 on the Jews. I was offended not by his antisemitism, but by his lack of originality. I wanted to tell the Dane Cook of conspiracy theorists that blaming the Jews for 9/11 had been done to death by mental patients way more talented than him, but I just got up and left before he was able to see my horns.

2. There's a reason I've never been to Crumbs Bakery (until yesterday)

I don't have a problem paying four bucks for a cupcake so big you need a fork to eat it, if the cupcake is actually good. I have a better, more appropriate name for this place - "Stale." I'm not sure which was worse - the fact that I could only finish half the cupcake because one more bite would have put me into a diabetic coma, or the fact that I sat next to the future cast of NYC Prep while I was eating it. If I'm gonna force feed myself a dry, shitty cupcake just to get my money's worth, I don't need to listen to a group of 9th graders whose handbags cost more than my mortgage payment use the word "like" fifteen times a sentence.

3. Fareed Zakaria is "a antisemite schmuck" - according to my great aunt.

I have nothing against the guy. I'm pretty sure he knows who's responsible for 9/11 - the Mexicans.

THE EMPEROR IS EATING PINKBERRY

2009-08-24T16:24:00.003-04:00

I know I'm in the minority, but I'm just gonna come right out and say it: Pinkberry tastes like ass! I don't get the long lines out the door, nor do I understand how people can stomach putting that vile, overpriced slop in their mouths. Maybe Pinkberry puts something in its yogurt that appeals only to those with more estrogen in their systems than testosterone since the lines out the doors are always comprised mostly of women. But to me and my balls, Pinkberry tastes like the milk they used was sour coming out of the cow, and throwing fruit on it doesn't disguise the grimace inducing hideousness of its flavor.

So when last night's date called a half hour before we were supposed to get together and suggested we meet at Pinkberry instead of at Starbucks, as previously planned, I hesitated.

"You don't like Pinkberry?" she asked.
"Not really, but that's cool. It's about the company anyway," I said.
"Hmmm. I really want Pinkberry."
"Don't worry about it. I'll sit with you while you eat."
"I don't know. It'll be weird if only I'm eating. I guess I'll have to push it off for another time."
"Yeah, well. Pinkberry isn't going anywhere."
"No. I mean our date. I really, really want Pinkberry. I was away for most of the weekend and there were no Pinkberries near me. I've been thinking about it since Friday."

I could have suggested that she get the yogurt before we met, but if she was gonna cancel a date because she was fiending for some Pinkberry, then far be it from me to get in between a girl and her curdled yogurt addiction.

"Well, enjoy it," I said, without offering to reschedule.
"Uhh, ooookay. I will," she said, as if she was annoyed that I wasn't interested in coming in second to a nine dollar cup of turd.

The friend who tried to set us up already gave me hell for not going out with her and force feeding myself the yogurt. But I'm pretty sure Ms. Pinkberry isn't for me, and I can only hope that her ass got bigger with each spoonful.

WHAT THE F&$% ARE YOU TALKIN' BOUT, WILLIS?!

2009-08-20T16:18:00.000-04:00

I was speaking to a client the other day who was bemoaning his newly divorced status. He's glad to be rid of the ex, but he's not having any luck on Match.com and E-Harmony. I wasn't aware that they even let Jews on E-Harmony. I thought it was some Mormon run site that doesn't allow "certain people" who don't measure up to its high standards to join - kind of like what they do at restricted country clubs, and at diners in Mississippi in 1951.

I very facetiously suggested that he try Jdate, and he said: "Yeah, man. Lay Date - that's where it's at. I keep meaning to set up the profile, but I've been lazy."
"What'd you call it?" I asked.
"Lay Date. I hear it's pretty easy to get laid on there."
"It is? How come no one told me?"
"I know a bunch of guys who've gotten laid from Jdate."
"Really? Like who?"
"They say the women are horny as shit."
"Really? Like who?"
"People go on there just to hook up."
"Really? Like who?"

I know I'm a bad example of successful Internet intercourse, but since when the fuck is Jdate like an episode of Entourage? Have there been drastic changes to the site since I last subjected myself to being treated like a digital leper?

I certainly won't be back to find out, but I gotta admit that I'm kinda hoping my client doesn't get laid from Jdate, so I'm not the only one.

SPEAKING OF VAGINAS

2009-07-27T18:12:00.001-04:00

As I was sitting on a bench in Central Park the other day, I overheard a guy in his early twenties tell a friend that he "loved vaginas" and that they're his "favorite part of a woman." What he said made me smile - not because it was particularly funny, but because I remember telling a friend the exact same thing when I was that age.

Back in my twenties, I suppose the vagina was my favorite part of a woman. It didn't really matter whose body the vagina in question was attached to. As I've grown older, slightly wiser, and more discriminating, I'm less inclined to plug any hole that's offered me. I still do very much like vaginas, but they're no longer my favorite part of a woman.

My favorite part is now the part of a woman that makes her sweet and kind and funny and cool and smart; the part that stops her from whining about every thing and everyone that she hates, and tells me to stop when I whine about the same things; the part that lets me be me without trying to mold me into someone she thinks she wants to be with; the part that's independent and doesn't need some guy to complete her; the part that picks up the check once in a while; the part that doesn't play by rules written by bitter, damaged women; the part that doesn't think it owns the truth no matter the subject; the part that doesn't need a four-carat diamond to make her happy; the part that gets my sophomoric, sarcastic humor; the part that makes me smile when I see her and disappointed when I know I won't.

So I've gone from being a 20 year old kid who really likes pussy to being a 38 year old man that sounds like one. But I don't care. That's what I want.

SKANKVILLE/YORKVILLE: WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?

2009-07-19T18:12:00.000-04:00

Maybe I need to leave the house more often, or maybe the Upper East Side has suddenly become New York's red light district, but I couldn't believe how many women I saw standing on street corners last night in tit-revealing tops, super short skirts and stripper shoes - the kinds with the ridiculously high heels and the straps everywhere. I'm generally not one to complain about scantily clad women, especially when that special brand of summer horniness kicks in (guys, you know what I'm talking about), but there was something a bit sad about these women. They all seemed like they were trying too hard - like a guy at a club wearing a muscle shirt who flexes every time he raises his beer.

Whether they had the bodies to pull it off, or whether they looked like the woman on 73rd street whose breasts were literally outside her top (it wasn't pretty, but I had to look), they all looked uncomfortable - both physically and emotionally. Give me a slim chick with a pretty face in a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops, and I'm good. That's exactly what I was wearing last night and no one looked at my tits with pity in their eyes.

THE YAWNER

2009-07-12T19:53:00.001-04:00

Many months ago, I allowed a woman I vaguely know to set me up on a blind date. She's someone who happens to travel in the same circles as my mother - and by "same circles," I mean they see each other at weddings, Bar-Mitzvahs and funerals. It was at one such event in a chapel in Brooklyn where my date with The Yawner was arranged. As the mourners shed their tears over the passing of a loved one, my mother and this woman worked out the details of a setup the seeds of which could not have been planted at a more appropriate venue. I can only imagine how the conversation went down:

My Mother: Do you have anyone for my son?
The Woman: I have a friend who has a daughter. She's in her mid-30s and has a vagina. I think they'd be perfect for each other.
My Mother: Make it happen.

I wasn't given The Yawner's phone number, and the oh so clever introductory email I sent her got immediately bounced back. I took the message from the Mail Delivery System as a sign and decided not to tell the woman that she'd given me a bad email address. I hoped that the whole thing would just go away. But before I could forget the chick's name and throw out the Subway napkin on which I scribbled her incorrect email address, my phone rang.

"So did you email her?" the voice on the other line asked with bated breath.

"I tried, but the address you gave me is wrong," I said.

"Hold on. It's ******_*******@yahoo.com. Wait, maybe it's hotmail...or aol. How are you spelling her last name?"

"Exactly how you told me - *******."

"Try *********," she said. "Maybe that'll work."

"Emails are kinda like phone numbers," I explained. "They have to be exact."

"I'll call you back with her phone number," she said before hanging up, and before I could say, "Please, don't bother."

Within five minutes, the woman called back with The Yawner's number and insisted that I call right then and there. I believe the phrase she used was: "she's waiting for your call." If there's one thing I dislike more than completely random setups where the matchmaker makes no real effort to actually insure that the two people in question are a match, it's a matchmaker who's a pest. I told her I'd call as soon as possible, and I did that evening.

The date was uneventful until about an hour or so in when my companion let out a huge yawn. And by huge I mean one of those yawns that are so over the top they seem fake - like the person acting out the yawn wants to send a clear message that they're bored and wants very much to be elsewhere. I received the message loud and clear, paid the check immediately and wished her well before we went our separate ways. I found it ironic that she was the one who felt the need to yawn since I had spent forty-five minutes listening to her describe what she did for a living. I can't recall what it is she said she does, but I remember nodding a lot and saying, "cool" every so often, as she told me.

When my mother called me a few days later to see if I'd gone out with The Yawner, I told her what happened.

"Maybe she was just tired," she said in The Yawner's defense. "Yawning is a normal bodily function."

"So is farting," I said. "But there's a polite way to do it and an impolite way. I don't lift up on one cheek and ask my dates to pull my finger."

"Oh well. Forget about her then," she said.

And I did until last week when the woman who set us up approached me at a Bar-Mitzvah I couldn't get out of attending.

"So ***** is engaged," she said to me, clearly trying to make me feel like I lost out.

"Great," I said. "Good for her."

"He's a great guy. A doctor."

"I'm sure they'll be very happy together."

"Oh, she's ecstatic. Absolutely ecstatic."

"Well, I wish her the best."

"Now we have to get you married off!"

"That's okay. I'm good," I said, fake yawning.

"Whatsa matter? You're tired?" she asked.

Just of you and this conversation, I thought.

"Try not to yawn," she said. "There are some single women here. No one likes a yawner."

Oh, the irony, I thought. Luckily, someone came over and pulled her away. A few more seconds of her condescension and I would have asked her to pull my finger.

Never Judge a Book By Its Do Rag

2009-06-16T16:00:00.005-04:00

I sat in a subway car yesterday afraid I might not make it out alive. Huddled in a corner near me was a group of street toughs discussing what I thought was a gang hit.

"He dead, son!" the apparent leader of the group told one of his soldiers.
"What?! Nah!" he responded.
"Yeah, motherfucker. He DEAD!" the leader exclaimed, as I tried my best to look away, hoping they wouldn't notice me.

I waited anxiously for the train to pull into the next station, so I could get off before they realized I was a witness to a confession of murder.

"He dead? F'real?" a third member of the group asked the leader.
"Bitch, I'm telling you. Megatron is dead! He got killed in the first movie!"

WHY I MAY BE BANNED FROM MACY'S AND OTHER UNCOMFORTABLE FACTS

2009-06-14T17:21:00.011-04:00

Last Thursday, as my friend and I were finalizing the details of the mountain biking expedition we went on yesterday, he mentioned that I should wear boxer briefs. Being a strict boxer guy, I asked why the boxer briefs were necessary. He said that the seams on boxers would rub up against the bike seat and "rip my ass apart." "Rip" is not a word I like to hear used in reference to my ass, so I made my way over to Macy's on Friday to get the boxer briefs. I know wearing old school boxers puts me in the minority, at least among the under-eighty crowd, but the few times I've worn boxer briefs, I've felt like I should be standing on top of a bar in Chelsea, singing about how fun it is to stay at the YMCA. I've also never felt comfortable with the deceit involved in wearing boxer briefs. Someone should lobby Congress to make the underwear people put a warning label across the front that says, "Objects in these boxer briefs are nowhere nearly as big as they appear!"

I browsed through Macy's men's underwear section, looking for the perfect pair of ass protectors, while staring at the boxer brief enhanced bulges of the male models that appeared on each of the boxes of underwear. I've never bought a shirt or pair of pants that came in a box with a picture of a guy wearing the shirt or the pants, but I guess the unspoken slogan of the boxer brief industry is "Buy this and your dick will look big." While I can respect their no bullshit approach to marketing, it made my search all that more uncomfortable. I was trying to convince myself that I didn't need to buy the boxer briefs by comparing the seams on them to the alleged ass rippers on my boxers. I couldn't find an open box and I was afraid that the sixty-something year old woman with the name tag would perform an underwear lady's arrest, if she caught me trying to open one. I was forced to mentally trace the seams that surrounded the Calvin Klein model's package, while I ran my hands over my jeans, trying to feel the seams on my boxers. I pretended I was scratching an itch, and prayed there wasn't a security camera recording something that would wind up in inboxes and on Facebook pages throughout the world. I wasn't convinced that the boxer seams were any different, but given what it looked like I had just done, the next logical step was to buy the underwear and take the model and his bulge home with me.

I didn't wind up wearing the boxer briefs I bought during our bike ride. Instead, I wore a pair of my friend's "special mountain biker ass and ball protecting underwear" after I was barely able to sit on my bike wearing the Calvin Kleins. If my weekend didn't begin confusingly enough, it certainly ended that way. Not only did I wear another man's underwear, but my ass is killing me.

Polish Girls Really Do Love Sausage

2009-06-08T00:39:00.003-04:00

Some might think I was scraping the bottom of the barrel by allowing my friend, "D," to set me up with his Polish cleaning girl's friend, but I was open-minded when the setup was suggested. And by "open-minded," I mean bored and lonely. I hemmed and hawed until "D" agreed to make it a double date, though. He'd take one for the team, he said, by acting as his five-foot-one, two-hundred pound cleaning girl's escort for the evening, as I got to know her friend whom "D" assured me was very attractive and NOT a cleaning lady. I found it odd, even amusing that he has such a close relationship with the woman who scrubs his toilets, given that I don't think I've had more than a handful of conversations with the woman who scrubs mine. We communicate via notes that she leaves on my kitchen counter in which she addresses me by my full name and tells me what cleaning products she needs me to buy. She even asked for a raise via post-it note.

"Dear Mr. Marc ****, I need Fantastik with bleach, gloves size (m) and $10 more. Thank You," she wrote a few months ago. I responded by buying the Fantastik and gloves and leaving her an additional ten dollars every time she's come since. Not a word was spoken between the two of us, and it never once occurred to me to ask her if she had any cute, single friends she'd be willing to allow my friends to try and sleep with.

I sat with "D," his cleaning lady and her friend, Ana, at a blues club for around twenty minutes in between sets, attempting to make polite conversation with a surprisingly attractive and slim Polish woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Despite "D"'s assurances to the contrary, I was expecting a stereotypical Slavic women with a babushka, at least fifty extra pounds, a mustache, and a bad attitude. Well, one out of four ain't bad.

Every question I asked Anastajza, the Ice Queen of Krakow, was responded to with an angry sneer that made me feel guilty for having the audacity to interrupt the conversation she was having in Polish with her friend. "I am chemist" was all I managed to learn about her before the band took the stage.

As the music got louder, I moved my chair closer to Madame Curie, and asked her if she'd ever been to a blues club before. She nodded no, turned to her friend and mumbled something that likely had a backwards "R" in it. When I followed up with, "I love the blues. I can feel it in my soul," I saw her eyes roll before she again turned to her friend and uttered what was almost definitely an insult directed at me. The ship was sinking fast and I had to bust out the big guns, or at least an indirect reference to big guns.

"It's probably because my grandfather was black and grew up in the South that I have the blues in my blood, ya' know," I said right before her eyes lit up like I'd just told her I was an heir to a large Kielbasa empire, the crowned jewel of which was in my pants.

"Really?" she asked, happily shocked that the pasty, white Jew she'd been ignoring until then could possibly please her in ways no pasty, white Jew ever could.

I nodded yes, and heard her say something to her friend who then gave me the once over and said something in Polish that sounded a lot like, "Get the fuck outta here! HIM??!! NO WAY!" Even if that's not what she actually said, Ana responded as if it was. The Polish Hazel had not only made her friend ignore me for the remainder of the evening, but she had successfully Kielbasa blocked me.

PLEASED TO MEET YOU, HOPE YOU GUESS MY NAME

2009-05-29T09:45:00.007-04:00

When last night's date called me Irv for the second time, I decided not to correct her. I wasn't quite sure I heard her right the first time she called me Irv, or maybe it was Herb, so I let it go. But when she asked, "So what's your favorite quote, Irv," I completely lost interest in her, the date, and the fact that she thought I shared a name with a large percentage of the male population of Boca Raton. The fact that she didn't know my name didn't bother me, though I found it odd given that we emailed each other at least three times before the date, and she had to have seen my name written next to the word "From" in her inbox. What made me lose interest was the way she asked me questions like she was reading them off index cards during an interview for a job I didn't want.

"So what makes you laugh?" she asked, as the interview began.

"The way my grandmother says yoo-reen when she's trying to say urine," I responded.

"Uh huh," she said, barely paying attention to my answer.

"What songs are on your Ipod?"

"Don't have one."

"O-o-okay," she said condescendingly. "Where'd you spend your last vacation?"

"On my sofa."

"Mmm hmm...So what's your favorite quote, Irv," she continued, not missing a beat.

If I were a Shakespearean scholar, or gave a shit for that matter, I might have said, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." But the truth is, I had to look the quote up online to get it right, and she wouldn't have gotten the irony anyway since she actually thought my name was Irv - a fact she demonstrated yet again when we left the bar together ten minutes later and she said, "Nice meeting you, Irv. Take care."

Call It Divine Intervention

2009-05-22T14:14:00.008-04:00

No one would ever accuse me of being religious. I haven't stepped foot in a synagogue since my nephew's penile scalping over nine years ago - and unless his foreskin grows back, I don't see myself returning anytime soon. I believe in a higher power, just not one that meddles in the trivialities that comprise our daily lives. However, that belief was tested last night when I logged on to...dare I say it...the site that had been the bane of my existence for so long - the dating site every single heeb loves to hate. Though it felt like an eternity since I logged on, the old knot in the stomach returned seconds after I entered my email and password and hit the log in button. I saw some familiar faces. Some women that I remembered being my age last time I saw their pictures were now miraculously at least three years younger than me. There were others I'd never seen who looked pretty good in their pictures, but whose profiles read like they were written by lazy third-graders who were forced to write compositions about themselves by their substitute teachers. The days of the tired cliches have been replaced by twitter like essays - very short, uninteresting, and grammatically challenged. With the exception of the requisite non-Jews searching for their Jewish banker/lawyer/doctor husbands, the site still remains predominantly Jewish, and I felt like I was browsing the Emunah Women of America membership catalog. Most of the women looked like they just got off the Long Island Railroad, and I could almost hear the Fran Drescher-ish whine in their voices as I imagined them reading their profiles.

Somehow I managed to come across around a dozen women that I found interesting enough to email. I hot listed them and slowly and anxiously reached into my wallet. My American Express card sat on my desk as I scrolled my mouse over the words "Subscribe and Enjoy Jdating." I took a deep breath, but was unable to relax knowing that what I was about to embark upon would be anything but enjoyable. The odds of getting even one response from those 12 women were slim to none, and I knew I was about to spend the next thirty days glued to that goddamn site - the one I'd managed to stay away from for so long. I felt like a crackhead, who'd been clean for years, about to hand a wad of crinkled, dirty bills to a dealer on a street corner in exchange for a small rock that would ultimately cause me nothing but trouble. "Fuck it!" I said, as I let myself get taken in by the remote possibility that THIS time it might work. I clicked on the link that was to take me to the subscription page and then it happened - a truly religious experience.

A message telling me I had been infected by a virus popped onto the screen and my computer began scanning itself to remove the malicious threat. I knew the message itself and the resulting scanning were themselves viruses, but I was grateful. I "x"ed out the window warning me of the attack and immediately ran every anti-virus/spyware/malware program I had. My computer is safe and now so am I - from a month of despair, hopelessness, frustration and anger.

There was probably a virus sitting dormant on my hard drive that was triggered by something on Jdate, but I like to think that something or someone has a better plan for me.

How To Lose a Guy in 10 Words

2009-05-19T10:13:00.004-04:00

It's easy. Just update your Facebook status to: "Took a HUGGGGE shit. I love the smell of poop!"

Yes, that's an actual Facebook status from an actual woman/girl.

I've deactivated my own Facebook account because I no longer see any reason to have one, but when a friend wanted to show me a picture of some chick he'd befriended, the shitter's status update appeared on his home page. The status was followed by such comments from her friends like " u go girl" and "too funny...lmfao." Upon clicking on her profile, I was amazed to learn that she had a boyfriend, but not surprised that he didn't comment on her declaration of defecation. In her defense, she's only twenty-years old, and based on her pictures, I don't doubt that her turds are as monumental as she claims.

I wonder, however, if somewhere her boyfriend is figuring out how to dump her - pun intended.

BLAME IT ON THE DEAD GUY

2009-05-13T11:41:00.002-04:00

Last night, I was about thirty seconds into berating my idiot brother for insisting that the "George Lopez" show is hilarious (he was disturbingly dead serious), when I heard the call waiting beep on my cell phone. I looked at the caller ID and it was a woman I was supposed to go out with tonight on a second date. I told my brother I was embarrassed to share DNA with him and I hit the "send" button to switch over to the other line. After the "Hey, how are you?" pleasantries ended, I heard the words, "Listen, about tomorrow night" uttered. I knew she was calling to cancel by her tone, but her reason for canceling is one of the best I've heard yet - and by "best," I mean most disturbing. Way more disturbing than liking the "George Lopez" show.

Let's start at the beginning.

A group of us were hanging out at some bar/lounge/restaurant downtown when my friend "D" pulled me aside to tell me that one of the chicks in the group "thinks you're cute." He suggested that sharing a ride with her uptown might be a good way to get to know her a bit better. "Thinks you're cute" generally gets translated by the male brain as "she'll probably fuck you by the fourth date," and I jumped at the chance to share a cab with her, even though doing so would take me considerably out of my way. The ride was pleasant. The conversation, though not scintillating, flowed smoothly, and she seemed cool. When we got to her building, she didn't jump out of the cab. She waited for me to ask for her number, which I did. Even after her digits were securely stored in my contacts list, she continued to linger, as if she didn't want our time together to end. It was sweet. We spoke for a few minutes more and I told her I'd call her - which I did.

When a week had gone by and I hadn't heard back from her, I assumed I was being blown off. I wondered for a moment how "she'll probably fuck you by the fourth date," could so quickly turn into "she doesn't even want to go on a first date," but I didn't let it occupy my thoughts for too long. I had almost completely forgotten about her until "D" called me and asked if I'd gone out with her yet. When I explained to him that she never called me back, he assured me he'd look into the matter. I begged him not to, but he needed to get to the bottom of this mystery. He called me the next day to tell me that she said she lost my number. I sighed.

"That's such bullshit," I told "D."

"Yeah, I know," he said. "But she thinks you're cute. Call her again."

And the next thing I knew, I was dialing her number all because my brain told my fingers to look her up in my contacts and hit "send" because doing so might get me laid by the fourth date.

Our first date was perfectly fine, but I couldn't help but feel a bit of resentment towards her during the two hours we spent together. The whole "I lost his number" thing didn't sit well with me, and the fact the she never addressed it or apologized for not calling back seemed a bit uncool to me. Despite her obvious interest on the first night we met, our date almost seemed like we were on it out of obligation to a friend who had a vested interest in hooking us up. I walked her back to her building and gave her the "it was really nice spending time with you" routine with no intention of asking her out on a second date. But again, she lingered. As the doorman held her door open, waiting for her to enter, she kept on talking - mentioning all the different things going on the city that she wanted to see and do. Once again, my male brain started to interpret what she was saying. "I really wanna see the new Russell Crowe movie" meant "I really wanna see the new Russell Crowe movie with YOU and maybe give you a handjob in the theater." And since there's no arguing with that logic, I asked her out again for tonight. Though she seemed genuinely excited when she said yes, I wasn't surprised when she called and said, ""Listen, about tomorrow night..." I just assumed she was another one of those game-playing chicks who doesn't really know what the hell she wants, and I listened quietly as she continued, "I'm gonna have to cancel."

Had she left it at that, I wouldn't have said a word other than "No problem. Take Care." But she kept talking.

"Do you know Isaac *****'s brother?" she asked.

"The one who passed away?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know his brother, but Isaac and I have some mutual friends."

"Anyway, " she continued, "Him passing away at such a young age...it's made me think."

"About what?" I inquired, not believing she was going where I knew she was.

"About stuff. And I kinda don't wanna waste time."

I put her on fake hold - not because I couldn't think of anything to say, but because I had way too much to say and I didn't want her to call the cops on me after I was done saying it. I regained my composure and got back on the phone.

"You're not seriously using the death of a twenty-five year old kid as an excuse to cancel a date?" I asked. "You don't wanna go out with me again - fine. But I mean..."

"I don't wanna waste your time either," she said in her defense.

"Thanks. I appreciate that, but you coulda said, 'I don't think we're a match' and that would have been that."

All she could do was stammer and babble incoherently about how the death of someone she knew as well as I did (which is not at all) made her "think." I wanted to go into a tirade about how I wasn't interested in her anyway and that I only asked her out again because she lingered, and my penis controlled brain told me to. Instead I let her off the hook by wishing her good luck and a good night.

When I recounted the story to "D" all he could say was, "That's fuckin' classless. Too bad. You probably could've nailed her on the third date." "D"'s penis controlled brain is obviously more optimistic than mine, but clearly neither one has a clue.

My Cell Phone Would Never Get Laid

2009-05-11T13:11:00.000-04:00

I finally gave in and added texting as a feature on my phone. I resisted becoming one of the thumb typing masses for as long as I could, but was forced to give in and join their ranks. Too many people I know will only respond to a text, and as much as that makes me want to stop knowing them, I can't quite cut them out of my life just yet. So for the foreseeable future, I'll be typing punctuation free, grammatically incorrect texts like a kid spending his third year in the first grade.

I've been careful to keep the fact that I'm now a texter from those who might abuse such knowledge. As convenient as it is to have someone I'm meeting simply text me an address rather than have to listen to them try and shout it over the sound of a train pulling into the station, it's equally annoying to have that same person text me their exact location in real time as they make their way to our meeting. I don't care that you're at 42nd Street and are transferring trains, or that the cab is now turning onto Houston. Just fuckin' get here! If you're running late, THEN you can tell me where you are. Otherwise, keep yourself occupied by playing Tetris on your phone and stop wasting my texts. I only get 150 a month - and that's coming and going.

Despite the convenience, I still stand by my credo that texting is not a substitute for real communication. I don't know if I'd feel comfortable asking a women out via text, despite the fact that my phone comes equipped with a pre-fab text that says: "Would you like to join me for a date?" Now I know my phone is an older model, and I need to upgrade to one with a QWERTY keyboard so it doesn't take me ten minutes to type "I'll be there at 8," but how old is this damn phone? "Would you like to join me for a date?" is how you asked a woman out after having the operator connect you to her in Mayberry in 1957.

I'm waiting for Verizon to come out with the new phone I want. Hopefully, it'll have more game than my current phone, and I can join the rest of the male population by texting women instead of calling.

2009-05-04T16:48:00.001-04:00

I have nothing interesting to share, so please enjoy this joke in lieu of my usual cynicism and sarcasm:

A woman is in an elevator when a man gets in. He turns to her and asks, "Can I smell your vagina?" "No!" says the woman. The man shrugs: "Then it must be your feet."