Tuesday, October 26, 2010

With a Little Help From My Friends...

Below is my best friend's response to the post I wrote about my bad day:

The Guitarist is a tool and you're too good for him. Just look at that nasty Facebook pic of him with the beanie and shiny face and you'll feel better.

Never, under any circumstances, accept a strawberry from a dirty foreign man driving a van called Mr. Softee. You should feel honored that he gave one to her, not you.

Attracting any kind of man that comments on your skin in the subway is NOT a positive thing. If a man told me my skin looked good under that disgusting lighting I would think he was mocking me.

Feel better?

Celeb Encounter 1

I am at a bar on the Lower East Side. Since I'm nearsighted, I can't see too well in dark bars, but I don't wear my glasses in public.

A tall man with mucky-colored brown hair catches my eye. He looks slightly familiar, but I can hardly see clearly the straw in front of my face. I bow my head down to take a sip of my cranberry vodka. Straw goes up my nose.

"Woah, cool ring. Looks like a plate," the man comments.

I turn to him, and it is Seth Meyers from SNL.

"He's totally hitting on you!" My dumb blond friend whispers to me, elbowing me in the stomach.

No, he just thinks he's cool, I decide.

"Thanks! Your shirt looks..uhh..wrinkly," I respond to Seth Meyers. I didn't know what else to say (because it is in fact really wrinkly - wrinkles are my pet peeve).

Seth Meyers turns on his heel and walks away, giggling like a schoolgirl.

End result: I am so incredibly awkward.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Four Men, Four Rejections

Something I haven’t written about on here yet is a date I went on a few weeks ago with a boy who plays the guitar in the church band. We were friends for months, I developed a massive crush on him, we eventually went on a great date (in my opinion – clearly I was wrong), then he never spoke to me again.

Sunday morning Monica and I go to church. She promises not to leave me alone in case I have a run-in with The Guitarist.

When the service is over, Monica asks where the restroom is. I point to the left, she wanders off, and I turn around to see The Guitarist walking towards me.

“Long time, no see!” he says and gives me a half-assed half-hug.

I make a joke about his acoustic guitar solo sounding bad, figure it’s best to keep things light.

“Ah, I just remembered why I don’t like you. Plus, you smell,” The guitarist says as he walks away, chuckling.


Monica returns, we leave, and she says: Thank God we didn’t run into The Guitarist!”

Later, as the two of us schlep around SoHo, I see on Facebook that The Guitarist is brunching at a restaurant I had originally told him about, and according to the photo he posts, he is with a girl.

We cross the intersection of Houston and West Broadway and I point out the place where my ex-boyfriend and I had our first date. My bad mood is getting worse.

I decide to get a milkshake from the Mr. Softee truck. Maybe the chocolate will keep my situational depression at bay.

The ice cream man gives Monica a strawberry to eat while we wait, but he does not offer one to me.

“Even the ice cream man doesn’t like you!” Monica laughs her head off.

While she pays, I shakily try to balance my milkshake and her cone.

“Yo girl, can I get a lick of that cone before you drop it?!” A thug asks as we walk across the cross walk. I ignore him.

We get on the subway to head home, and a homeless man wearing a Harvard T-shirt stares at Monica’s bare legs. He tells Monica she has pretty skin and I laugh hysterically because she has a quarter-inch of hair on her legs.

"What’s so funny?" the bum inquires. He’s undeniably drunk.

Monica explains that I am sad because I’ve had a bad day.

"Oh. Well, I guess your skin is ok, too..." the man says.

Friday, October 22, 2010


If you refer to my latest post...I am taking shots alone. On a Friday night. Just watched the Texas Rangers kick the shit out of the New York Yankees (I've lived in NY for 3 years, yes, but I lived in Texas for 22). Anyhoooo... Got a text from Gavin:

"Congrats! I'm on a little road trip this weekend so I didn't see any of the game -- lucky for your boys! Are you available this coming week? We should get dinner."

AHHHHH!!! God help me! I could hardly stand drinks with this fool. Dinner? Sounds like Japanese water torture. What do I say?!

P.S. If he didn't see any of the game, how the hell does he know Texas won?

You're Not Drinking Alone if Your Dog is Home

I usually like to keep myself busy on the weekends because these are the days I am reminded not only that I am single (most my friends are busy with their other halves, leaving me to fend for myself), but also that I got dumped several months ago (buzz word: several months ago).

It's Friday night, 9:49 PM. I am watching the preview channel (don't have cable), wearing no makeup (well that's nothing new), and slurping butterscotch pudding I made on the stove (has a sour aftertaste because I used almond milk instead of cow's milk).

My friend Monica is arriving tonight, staying till Wednesday. I've been counting down the days till I am going to be "busy" this weekend.

"Is it fine if I come later tonight? My aunt is shoving wine in my face," Monica texts.

"It's ok," I respond, "Come whenever."

And upon her arrival, she will find me three sheets to the wind, taking shots alone. Gotta keep my Friday night busy.

At least this time I have rancid custard to wash down the taste.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

The Text

Today, Gavin texted me this:

"Hey, how was Ohio-- are you back in town? I'm going to tomorrow's Yankee's game with my buddy to discreetly root for Texas (I don't like having beer poured on me.) If they win I think that will be proof that Texas' collapse Friday night was due to your bad luck, not mine."

Isn't that kind of a long and awkward text for a guy to send to a girl he's met once? I am confused... Probably won't answer, but don't want to be rude. Don't want to lead him on either. Ahh decisions.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Yankees Win, I Lose

Unfortunately, my date with the Columbia student was nothing short of a disaster…

At 8 PM, Gavin texts me and says he’s on the road heading back from a conference in D.C. He also adds that he’s taking longer than expected due to numerous bathroom stops. I don’t know why this is pertinent info to text, but I brush it aside, figure he’s just joking around.

An hour later, he calls me and screams into the phone, “Where do you live again?!” He’s yelling over the blaring music and honking cab noises of Times Square. I wonder why he thought I live in Times Square, but again brush it off and tell him to head a few avenues west to my apartment.

Soon he is in my lobby, waiting for me to come downstairs. I take four yucky shots of Southern Comfort, chase them down with expired vegetable juice, and hop on the elevator.

When I see him, he looks much like I remembered him, but about six inches shorter. I hug him and act overall excited to see him even though my four-inch clogs make me about two inches taller than him (I am only 5’1” - you do the math). He’s wearing light blue jeans, an untucked shiny green button down shirt (the type you would only wear with a suit, not with jeans) and scuffed up New Balance tennis shoes. His face is slightly handsome, but surprisingly covered in deep wrinkles. I wonder if he lied about being 28.

By now it’s 10 PM and the Yankees are playing my home state in a series game, so I suggest we watch the game at a nearby sports bar.

The bar is chock full of Yankess fans in head-to-toe regalia; hooping, hollering and overall acting like banshees. My team is winning! I think this is going to be an interesting game, but I can’t so much as take a peek at the score because Gavin talks my ear off. Does this kid ever shut up, like ever? I don’t say a peep for at least 20 minutes straight. I find it unattractive when men are not into sports, and he clearly is unfazed by the game. Suddenly, the Yankess are up by three and it’s already the bottom of the 8th.

Meanwhile, I’ve also been holding the same empty beer glass for that 20 minutes, all the while Gavin has had a new beer twice, both times shooing off the waitress before I can order. He doesn’t even ask me if I’d like another drink.

So we sit. He talks. I try to catch glimpses of the game, to no avail.

At midnight, I have to pee so I excuse myself. Since the bar’s main clientele tonight is men ages 18-45, there is no line to the women’s room and I come back to my seat next to Gavin within four minutes. Upon my return, I notice Gavin has ordered himself a gin and tonic, yet still no drink for me. He continues his story about his father's recent affair with his 19-year-old intern (Why would he tell me this?), and I notice that the Yankees have won. They beat my home team, and I didn’t see even one play.

Finally, I tell Gavin I have to get going, I have an early plane to catch (I really do). And he responds, “Just let me know when you have to leave.” Isn’t that precisely the reason I told him I have to head home?

He yaps another 10 straight minutes, and the time on my watch says 1 AM. I am pissed; how did I spend three hours with this guy?

“Are you going to have another drink?” I ask, trying to speed things along.

“I’ll have one if you’re having one,” he responds, winking his left eye. I haven’t had a drink in two hours, so I don’t know who he’s fooling. I motion the waitress and she places the bill in front of him. For a painfully long time, the bill sits there, and I wonder if he expects me to pay it. I say I must get home, for the 4th or so time, and he finally picks up the bill. I am so annoyed that I do not offer to pay for my beer. Why should I? He basically prohibited my ordering drinks the entire evening.

He pays the bill and we leave. He offers to walk me home and I tell him there’s no need, but he insists. When we arrive to the front door of my building, I shake his hand then wave goodnight and run into my apartment.

I could care less if I ever see Gavin again.

Friday, October 15, 2010

I'm Going on a Date Tonight...

...with a Columbia grad student named Gavin whom I met on the rooftop of a Columbia bar last weekend. I usually don't give my number out to men I meet at bars, but he and I talked for several hours (until the bar closed and we got kicked out) and he asked me three or four times, so I finally gave in.

He wants to go to Boat Basin, an outdoor bar/restaurant on the Hudson River, but the weatherman says NYC is expecting a Nor'Easter tonight, so this should be interesting...

I am preparing by wearing a black facial mask and painting my nails Chinchilly.

Now...what the hell do I wear on a date during a Nor'Easter?

Monday, October 11, 2010

"You Can No Longer Blame Genetics for Your Shortcomings"

The above is what my cousin texted me last night after we found out our other cousin got engaged over the weekend. She is 20. I am the oldest of ten cousins, but chances are good I will be the last down the aisle. Just sayin.'