My First Blind Date

When I walk up to the coffee shop on 20th Street and 5th Avenue, there's a young man leaning against the brick wall reading a thick novel and dressed entirely in blue and green from head to toe (green and blue striped shirt tucked into blue pleated pants with bright green tennis shoes). "That's definitely not him," I think, and walk right past him into the coffee shop. 

"Kate, is that you? It's me, Charles."

I turn to see the green and blue striped man pointing at me with the novel tucked under his free arm. He's about as short as me (around 5'2'') and as dorky as can be, but then again what was I expecting an art history phD student to look like?

We introduce ourselves and I ask him if he comes here often. He tells me yes, and explains that the "buttery pastries" are to die for, but then follows with, "I live on the Upper East Side, so I don't make it down here too often." I chalk up his contradictory answer to nervous chatter and order a cappuccino. When the barista tells me my total is $5.00 (!!), I hand her my Visa and Charles does not offer to pay. I think this is a bad start to a date, but also realize it happened so fast I probably didn't give him the chance to buy my overpriced coffee anyway. 

Charles orders the same drink (and exclaims, "TWINSIES!") plus a madeline almond cookie, pronouncing it with a French accent. He tells me he just got back from a summer-long archeological dig throughout France. 

"I LOVE Paris!" I say, well, because that's the only place I've ever been in France (and it was only for two hours when our cruise ship was passing though). And that was about 15 years ago. I act as if I was there as an adult as opposed to when I was a nine-year-old, and we sit down in a corner booth. He sets the novel on the table in between us, and the title is the type of title I cannot pronounce, complete with a painting of a naked boy holding a snake in front of a king sitting in a throne. "I've seen this painting in real life." Charles says.

There's a few other people in the restaurant, and none of them are talking. I can tell the others are eavesdropping, and they are probably doing so because my conversation with Charles is making it blatantly obvious that we are meeting for a blind date: Questions like "Where are you from?" and "What part of the city do you live in?" are all answered within the first thirty seconds of sitting down.

The barista brings us our matching cappuccinos and Charles immediately pours two packets of Splenda into his oversized mug, which has "parlez vous francais" painted on the side. He takes a slow sip and I watch the frothy foam stick to his thick beard like a milk mustache, which I mentally predicted would happen anyway. He doesn't seem to notice (or care? Geeky people don't care about looking unkempt) and I wait a while to drink mine so as to avoid looking like Santa Claus.

He immediately talks about his blue blood-ish family (He went to boarding school in DC, father and both brothers have law degrees from Harvard, he keeps a boat in Cape Cod, etc.) and I chime in as best I can. I tell him my mother once worked on Capitol Hill (for about 2 months before she got knocked up with my illegitimate half-sister), my brother just started law school (I don't mention he's in Oklahoma, not Cambridge), and my grandparents have a boat at their lake house (which is actually a doublewide camp site in Indiana). I tell myself everyone embellishes on first dates. If he knew the truths of my life so soon, he'd run for the subway before he finishes his French cookie.

What I do not embellish are stories about my dog and my job - both of which he seems genuinely interested in.

"So is Fashion Week like The Devil Wears Prada?" he asks, the first of 5 million questions. It is now I realize he talks a damn lot. When he isn't talking about himself, he's asking me more questions than I can even answer before he's on to the next. While he's firing off his questions, I examine every inch of him to determine if I could ever sleep with him. His hair is mousy brown and mop-like, with a thickness that my half-bald ex-boyfriend would happily trade his investment banker salary for, and his beard covers about 80 percent of his face. His brown eyes are pretty, but I am too distracted by the black forest of hair creeping out of the collar of his Lacoste shirt to spend much time looking in his eyes. 

The Lacoste shirt. That reminds me of his outfit. I point to his seafoam green shoes and he says he got them "in Italy by way of California" and chuckles loudly. They are Vans, and he purchased them because his top-siders gave him blisters from walking all over Bologna. 

"A lot of guys like boat shoes, but really the only thing they are good for are cleaning the boat deck because of the rubber soles." he says. I tell him I hate guys who wear boat shoes and he should just stick to the Vans.

Soon the conversation is waning, so he asks if I want to "wander" with him. I agree, and we walk around Gramercy Park, I tell him some more Fashion Week stories, and he laughs his ass off. A couple times he puts his hand on the small of my back. I feel grossed out, but don't do anything about it. Finally I make up something about having to meet a friend, and he offers to walk me to the subway. When we get there, I am already not close enough to hug him goodbye unless I walk back towards him, which would be weird and forward, so he extends his hand and we barely touch fingertips, which is 100x worse than an awkward ass-out hug. I can't imagine what people walking by must have thought of us!

"Kate, it was a pleasure." he says in his dorky lisp. We both agree we'll see each other soon, and I thank God this whole thing is over as I walk down the subway steps. 

The Time I Was Late for a Date Because I Got Hit by a Car

Dating in New York City is never dull. Especially if you're meeting me for a date.

It's Saturday night and I have been getting ready for more than an hour, changing outfits eight or nine times and practicing seductive grins in the mirror.

"This is it, I can just feel it. Plus we were friends first, and that's always good," I tell my roommate as I hold my nose and take one more shot of SoCo - can't leave the house for a date without a buzz going first.

Tonight I am meeting Nick, a 28-year-old I worked with at my first job in New York back when I first moved here four years ago. He was born in Cuba, has bright seafoam-colored eyes and the kind of thick black eyelashes that look like natural eyeliner -- not like questionable "guyliner," just the type of lashes any girl would kill for. Last week I passed him on a Broadway crosswalk, then that very same evening we ran into eachother on 9th Avenue when I was walking home from work. It was fate. And he must have thought so too because right then and there we made dinner plans for this night.

So now that I've had the prerequisite SoCo shots and chosen an intentionally-mismatched outfit (we're going to the East Village after dinner), I head out the door.

When I am a few blocks from the restaurant, my mom calls.

"Are you at your computer? Can you get on Craiglist and help me find a subzero fridge in Sarasota, Florida?" She asks.

"What the hell? It's Saturday night, I'm headed to a date, can't help now."

Rolling my eyes and thinking my mother is a damn nutjob, I look both ways and begin to cross over 39th Street when deep in my peripheral vision I see a yellow cab speeding around the corner; an illegal left turn. The cab strikes me in the knee and before I can help it, I am flying across the hood, and I land dead center between the cab's front tires, spread eagle on the pot-holed pavement.

"KATE?! Are you there? What the hell just happened?!" I can hear my mom screeching through my iPhone, which is laying face up on the curb about five feet away from me.

I jump up, retrieve my cracked-screened phone and frantically try to type in the driver's plates. Two mid-western looking tourists, utter terror plastered across their faces, are in the backseat, and before they can get out I stutter something about being fine -- I am, after all, alive and standing -- and the driver peels out upon hearing me say I am ok.

I begin to limp across the street towards the restaurant where Nick is presumably waiting for me, and my mother calls.

"Kate, what happened? I called 911." My mother says. I tell her not to worry, I just got run over by a speeding and illegal turning cabbie and blood is gushing down my legs. Hobbling towards the restaurant, I realize my body is shaking uncontrollably. I am terrified and still can't believe what the hell just happened.

Just as I am approaching my destination, a police car complete with flashing lights and an echoing siren pulls over. I walk up to the car window and tell them to wait just one second. Still limping, I enter the restaurant and see Nick patiently sitting at the bar, full beer in hand.

"Hey you!" he exclaims. His eyes look me up and down and stop at my heinously bloody knees. "What the..."

"Nick, I am sorry, this is really embarrassing, but I've just been hit by a car and the cops are outside. Can you hang out here for a second?"

Bless his heart, his face is overcome with worry as he tells the bartender to watch his drink explaining, "this girl has just been run over by a car!" and he follows me outside.

Nick stands beside me as I describe the hit and run and the officer takes down my report.

Later, after Nick and I have had a dozen or so drinks between the two of us, we re-tell the hilarity to every person we come across in the East Village. And though I assume he thinks I am some kind of weird accident-prone chick, he doesn't show it, because we end the date at 4 am, wildly making out in front of my building and promising each other we'll get together early in the week.

Trust me, I'm a Vet

Sometimes, when I've had too much to drink, I give my number to men I am terribly UNinterested in. I don't know if beer goggles are to blame or if alcohol makes me nice, but if I've had a few too many cocktails, chances are good I'll put my digits in your phone if you ask.

For example, last Friday my friend Kara and I went to a pub on the Lower East Side. Our liquor is always poured with a heavy hand at this pub because in college we each dated everyone who either owned, bartended, or frequented regularly it. It's like an incestual assembly every time we visit.

At this particular reunion, we've had several potent vodka tonics and I am talking to a legit geek: velcro hair, thicker than coke bottle bifocals, a too tight superhero T-shirt, and ill-fitting faded jeans bunched together by a belt complete with a seatbelt buckle. His skin could use a once-over by a dermatologist, but I like the conversation we are having about pets. He leads me to believe he is a veterinarian, so I tell him silly stories about my dog.

Soon Kara pulls me away, nearly dislocating my shoulder.

"Why the eff are you talking to that nasty fool?!" she screams.

But Kara is seconds too late. I already caved and punched my number into his Blackberry.

Since we're familiar with this pub, we scamper down the back stairs, sprint through the basement, climb the front stairs, and make our escape right out the front door.

We are safe.

We go to a birthday party half a mile up 1st Avenue and forget about my plight. Kara buys us a few grapefruit tequila shots and in my haze, a familiar-ish face appears out of nowhere.

"Hey, Kate!"

The geeky vet found us. This time, his friend talks my ear off and it becomes apparent that the poindexter is not a veterinarian, but an undergrad student hoping to one day go to vet school. Big deal, maybe one day I'd like to become a millionaire plastic surgeon, but I don't go around telling that to strangers in bars. I am disgusted by this lying child, so Kara and I just go home.

The next day, I get a text that reads: "Hey Kate, it's Andy, the vet guy. Want to go to dinner with me?"

I don't respond and hope I'll never hear from him again, but two days later I get another text: "I'd still like to take you to dinner, Kate! Let me know what day is good for you."

I'm reminded of all the times a guy has let me down or not responded to my reaching out. Love (or lack thereof) has made me evil. I do not want to make Andy feel like that. I decide to do the right thing.

"Hi Andy! I am really sorry but initially I didn't realize you are still an undergrad and I am not really interested in going out with someone several years younger than me."

And just to drive home my point that he is too young, immature, and ignorant for my liking, he responds, "22, and I am going to vet school the semester after next. Your loss, Kate. See ya, have a good one!"

I really need to change my phone number and NOT memorize it.

Frank, the Neighbor

Kate and I have been best friends since we met in college several years ago. She sat in front of me in Intro to Public Relations and only ignored me on the days that I wore my hair differently and she “didn’t recognize” me. Right, cause I look like a different person when my hair is in a ponytail.

Flash-forward to 2010. We’ve both lived in New York for a good amount of years. After college, Kate holed up in her tuna can-sized apartment in Manhattan while my boyfriend and I decided on the much cheaper (and still expensive as all hell) basement apartment in Brooklyn. After four years, she still has no idea which subway to take to my place, but Kate and I have remained good friends, despite our differences. The main difference you ask? My answer would probably be “weight”…or something equally superficial. But if you asked Kate, I’d put money on her answer: MARRIAGE.

You see, my long-time boyfriend is now my husband and even though she was a stunning addition to our August nuptials, Kate is now convinced we no longer live on the same planet. In an effort to convince her of my undying loyalty, even if times of, ahem, marriage, my husband and I took the correct subway to Kate’s place last weekend for a lovely double date…with Kate and her, uh, gay neighbor.

“I have a date tonight,” Kate typed to me over Gchat one day.

“Of course you do,” I replied, clearly not surprised. Kate goes on more dates than The Bachelor during the first 5 episodes of the season.

“Will you and Dave puhleeeeeeease come on the date with me? We can do a super fun double date. Isn’t that what married people do?”

“That’s exactly what married people do, Kate. See you tonight.”

Dave and I arrive to Kate’s tuna can to find that she’s already downed 2 glasses of wine. When you weigh approximately 8 pounds, two glasses of wine is the same as 20 for someone with a normal-sized bigger body.

“You know how I get nervous,” Kate lies. “Just be glad it was wine this time and not SoCo.”

The gay neighbor (Kate’s date) arrives. He seems nice enough, though he’s shorter than my 45 pound dog and just as hairy. Kate introduces us and we all move to the living room to enjoy superficial conversation and (more importantly) some cocktails.

And then it happens.

While telling us about his fantastic lawyer job for the 18th consecutive minute, the date (let’s call him Frank) begins carefully removing his shoes. Mind you, we are in Kate’s mid-town apartment, not a mosque in Rome. Once he’s barefoot in front of his first date and her married counterparts, Frank sits on the couch. Indian-style. We’re talking sitting around a campfire singing Kumbaya Indian-style. Now, if a double date isn’t awkward enough, he has to go and do that.

“Nice socks,” quips Dave.

“Oh! Thanks. I got them while I was in Paris this summer.”

That explains why there are French baguettes all over them.

“Nice, did you go for work or play?” I ask, trying to look at his face, not the socks.

“Play. I love to play.”

This is going to be a long night.

Later, we feast on homemade cookies baked by, yep you guessed it, Frank. The play loving, Indian-style sitting, hairy, short neighbor is also a pastry chef.

The rest of the night is kind of a blur but here are the highlights:

• After consuming 6 cookies, Frank farted on the couch while he was sitting Indian-style. The fart shot out through the hole where his legs were crossed over each other.

• Kate asked her lawyer date to recite all the ammendements AND the presidents in chronological order. When he couldn’t remember George Bush (yes, the last president) Kate groaned and chugged her wine.

• Dave left to “get more wine” and didn’t come back. I found him at the bar around the corner on my way out. He has a foot phobia, so I let it slide.

• Frank sneezed and snot adhered itself to his cheek and chin. Kate didn’t make it awkward when she grabbed a tissue and wiped it herself.

Finally, it’s time to leave. I decide to leave after Frank, so he can’t put the moves on Kate. He puts on his shoes and moves toward the door. Kate opens it and thanks him for the cookies and the thrilling conversation.

“Thanks for having me over, Kate.”

“Thanks for coming…bye!” Kate has the tendency to, uh, be awkward in awkward situations. Like extremely awkward.

For a second, it looks like he’s moving in for the kiss. I can’t believe it. I’m standing right here! Here comes Kate and the awkwardness again…

“Um, I will talk to you later, Frank. Bye!” She shuts the door. On his face. Like literally.

She turns to me. “Is he gay?” she asks.

I look down at my left hand. Thank God for marriage.

A Dream Come True

My very good friend Blake from college called me today to say he's looking for jobs in New York and plans to move here after the new year. I have been in love with him since freshman year, so I wrote him a story to celebrate his wonderful news...



It's a blistering cold snowy day in Manhattan and Kate is inside her tuna can-sized apartment, cleaning poop off her dog Penelope's butt for the thousandth time. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Kate looks through the peephole and sees two sets of eyeballs. "It must be a two-headed monster!" she shrieks, but opens the door to find a tall toe-headed man and a mutt who resembles a human standing in the doorway. "Oh, phew, it's only Blake and Oliver!"

"SURPRISE! We have traveled from afar, 19 hours, to see you and Penelope!" Blake says.

"19 hours? From Texas?" Kate asks.

"Well, we missed our flight then got on the wrong subway at Grand Central Station, then a bum stole my wallet and sodomized Oliver," Blake explains as he begins to unload his 52 suitcases full of Apple products and designer jeans into the tight apartment hallway. "But we're here to stay; one big happy family; together forever!" he screeches as he hugs Kate and Penelope. Kate starts choking from strangulation.

Over the next few weeks, the precious family spends their days strolling through Central Park, shopping for housewares at Bergdorf's, and re-decorating Kate's kooky old roommate's room into a home office for Blake.

"I read in the New York Times today that you're predicted to be the Don Draper of our time in your new position as marketing president at Apple," Kate says nonchalantly over the spaghetti and week-old vegetables Blake made the family for dinner one night.

Oliver pukes on the new rug and Blake yells at Kate for giving Oliver onions. "Dogs can't eat onions, you stupid idiot!" Kate ignores him, turns to the next page of the Times and reads, "Weekend Getaway Deals on Delta to Greece," in the travel section.

"Omg,omg,omg! Flights to Greece are only $200! We can afford that if we don't feed Penelope and Oliver for a few weeks!" Kate jumps up and down and runs to the hallway closet to pull her suitcase out.

A huge smile forms on Blake's face as hides something behind his back. "Baby girl, I am one step ahead of you. We're going to Greece!"

After boarding Oliver and Penelope in a Bronx pound for the weekend, Kate and Blake jetset to a villa in the Greek Isles. Once they are finally over their jetlag, they decide to take a romantic stroll down the Mediterranean Beach, and out of nowhere, Blake gets down on one knee.

"Little girl, I have loved you since we were 17 and I first saw you drinking a Smirrnoff Ice and dancing to Jay-Z at the Sigma Chi duplex. Will you marry me?" Kate cries and cusses at him for not asking her sooner.

The beautiful couple hoop and holler and immediately high-tail it to a Grecian temple where they exchange 14-carat wedding bands inscribed in hieroglyphics "True Love Forever."

When they get back to the colonies and pick up their canines from The Bronx Zoo (they were kicked out of the pound for acting like wild animals), they call their parents -- Greg, Salma, Kent and Lynne -- to break the wonderful news.

"Who the hell is Kate, and when did you fly to New York?" Kent asks.

"Did you find a proper piano teacher in NYC yet?" Lynne chimes in.

"Thank God someone finally agreed to marry you," Greg mutters.

"Did you bring me back a Grecian urn for my living room?" Salma questions.

Kate and Blake laugh at the silly sluts who raised them and decide to bask in the bliss that is their big apple domestic life.

"Oh by the way," Kate says to Blake. "We're going to start re-decorating your home office... We'll need to paint the walls pink and buy a crib...."

THE END

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.

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.

Mature.

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.

Update

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.

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.

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 8^th.

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 4^th 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.

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?

"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.'

Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride

Last night one of my most favorite friends, Emily, got engaged to an awesome guy. He popped the question in a photobooth in North Carolina. Sounds quirky and romantic, which is them in a nutshell. I can't wait till she returns to New York next week to tell me all about it.

Here's the catch though: They only just met this past February.

Ironic because another close friend of mine met a guy in February, and just two weeks ago they tied the knot in the hill country of Austin, Texas. She is eight months pregnant. I did the math and am hoping to let out a nice big sigh of relief when (if) the baby comes out looking at all like the father. Who happens to be a dentist ten years her senior (which I find sexy, of course).

When she told me the news earlier this year, she exclaimed, "Match.com really does work!" Did she mean it worked to find her a much older doctor/sugar daddy, or worked to get herself knocked up? (I am a horrible person for saying that.)

I am not so sure what to think about that statement. But if I can sincerely be happy for my two friends and their whirlwind romances, who knows what the future may hold these days.

P.S. Emily was officially my last single friend. I'll be having an extra glass of wine tonight.

Asian Invasion

While checking my mailbox in the lobby last night, I overheard the following conversation take place between four or so young men as they were coming off the elevator. Judging by their voices and the overall content of their dialogue, I'd guess they were in their mid-2o's.

~Lots of laughter~

Well, If I am going to cheat on my girlfriend, you totally have to cheat on yours.

Of course I'll be cheating on her!

Yeah, we already established we are ALL cheating on our girlfriends.

What girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend?

Haha, there ya go! There. you. go.

No, really. I already broke up with her just because we are going on this trip.

Dude!

~More laughter~

What happens in Tokyo, stays in Tokyo!!!

I didn't have the pleasure of seeing these boneheads face-to-face because I was slightly hidden around the corner in the mailroom alcove, so I am not even sure if they were Asian or not. But I did catch a glimpse of their backsides as they exited the building and they were tall-ish, each wearing a suit. Which leads me to believe they were just a bunch of sleazy businessmen. (All you need to find a sleazy businessman in this town is a pair of boobs.)

I wonder if this conversation would have taken place had they seen a young girl in a sundress with her charming puppy dog on a leash. And how would their girlfriends have reacted had they heard this uncouth banter?

They really sounded like such tools.

Drinking, Driving, and Dexter

Tuesday night I have plans to get drinks with Dexter, a hipster/musician I dated in high school who has since become a pretentious vegetarian investment banker, drives a Saab around Manhattan and regularly brags about how his stocks are on the rise. Such is the life of a young New York banker - he has to work till 9 pm, so my roommate, Alexandra, goes with me to a bar in Chelsea to have a few drinks while I wait for Dex.

Over a shared order of chicken fingers and drinks - cranberry vodka for me and Amstel Light for her - we discuss the pros and cons of potentially dating Dexter.

"He's slightly a douchebag, but maybe he could drive us in his Saab to Chili's in New Jersey," Alex says. One of the only things we dislike about New York City is the nonexistence of the restaurants we frequented in college: Chili's and Chick Fil A.

"Dexter can be a hard dog to keep on the porch," I respond. "He's kind of a pain in the ass, so might not be worth dating him solely for a ride to Jersey."

I am basically over the date with Dex before he even arrives, but when he texts "in a cab," it's too late to cancel.

He arrives wearing a light blue tie; his dark hair is slicked back like an extra on the set of Wall Street. I can't really tell if I find him attractive. He's definitely cuter than he was in high school when he spiked his hair and wore band t-shirts to class, and he's nearly 6-foot-3, which never hurts.

He and Alex exchange hellos and how are you doings, and just like that she is released and out the door.

"Have you eaten?" he asks. I say yes and tell him the chicken fingers aren't very good. He flags down a waitress and orders a chicken sandwich and fries. Further confirmation that he's a know-it-all and doesn't care that I just said the chicken here doesn't rival the aforementioned Chick Fila A.

"I thought you were a vegetarian?" I ask.

"I stopped that two years ago because when CEOs ask me to dinner, we usually eat steaks. I can't very well order tofu salad at a dinner meeting with a CEO."

Of course he'd say that. Pretentious, like I said.

"I'm a simple meat-and-potatoes kind of guy anyway, so might as well," he adds. I tell him I beg to differ, since the last time I saw him he was in fact a skinny vegetarian sporting a new Rolex. Simple those attributes do not make.

We make some small talk about work, order a few more drinks, then he flashes and hands over his gold AmEx to the waitress before the bill even arrives. Showy move, I think, picking up the check before even looking at it.

Somewhere between our barstools and the front door, I talk him into taking a cab to where his Saab is parked so we can take it for a spin. It's so New York that we take a cab to his car, but it's always fun to ride around Manhattan without the ticking of a cab meter.

"So, how's law school going for your brother?" He asks me once inside the car.

Did I tell him my brother was in law school? Surely not, but in a city where most investment bankers date hotty totty girls who come from an East Coast blue blood family and summer in The Hamptons, I am surely not going to deny this. Besides, my brother does happen to be studying to take the LSAT. For the third time. But who's counting? At least he doesn't know my brother is still living with our parents.

"Oh, he's starting in January."

Lie number one.

"Cool," Dex says. "Is he living at home now?"

Shit.

"He's living in uptown Dallas, I think."

Lie number two.

Little does Dexter know right now my brother is probably eating over-cooked lasagna with my parents and bitching about not wanting to do the dishes after. I can just hear him now, "I already set the table tonight, what more do you want from me, WOMAN!?!"

Somewhere between the Upper East Side and the Upper West Side, Dexter's hand is on my leg as he maneuvers his sportscar through uptown traffic. My five or so drinks are starting to kick in, and he's looking slightly more attractive than when he first arrived at the bar. Soon we are pulled over on Madison Avenue, full-fledged making out. I've kissed him before, I dated him in high school for crying out loud, so I figure it's ok to make out in his flashy convertible in front of the Coach flagship store.

At one point my shoe makes a fart noise on the slippery leather seat. Or was it really a fart? I am too tipsy to know the difference, but I wouldn't put it past me. It wouldn't be the first time I have farted on a date, and it sure as hell won't be the last. My friend Kathleen likes to say I poop every time I pee. That's hardly true, but I do think my 95-pound frame stays thin thanks to the fact that if I eat a Big Mac and a McFlurry, I'll crap it out within an hour. I may not have affluent blue blood in my veins, but at least my genes include a good metabolism...

"Want to come back to my place?" Dex mutters, interrupting my thoughts about bowels and genetic codes. I kind of wish I was home watching Dateline with Alex on the couch in our underwear. We don't have central air, so that explains the underwear. We also don't have cable, which explains why we'd be watching Dateline.

"Can't, I have some work to do at like 7 am."

Lie number three.

"Stop being boring," he protests.

"I'm not boring, it's 1 am and I have to be up at the crack of dawn."

Lie number four.

He begs and pleads and generally acts annoying, so I pretend I am getting sick from my drinks, and that does the trick. Moments later we are in front of my apartment. Leaning back in the car after I get out, I thank him for the drinks and the drive. The car door knocks me on the back of the head, and then I stumble into the lobby of my building. On the elevator, I think maybe I should have stayed home and watched Dateline on the couch in my underwear.

Before I enter my front door, Dexter texts, "I wish you were going home with me."

Get a clue, Dex.

Hello and Welcome

My name is Kate and I am a 24-year-old single girl living in Manhattan. My friends say I go on more bad dates than anyone they've ever met. I agree, so I've decided to start sharing the stories behind my quest to find love.

While all events are real, names will be changed so as to protect the innocent, idiotic, and deadbeat.

Wish me luck!

Kate