Crash Test Dating

Did you say your name is Rambling Rose?

2006-07-31T15:37:00.000-04:00

Greetings from California. I am currently on vacation in this paradisical state, mostly just hanging out all by my lonesome, which is nice, except that I'm far too pensive and moody and could use some good chat. I'm trying really fucking hard to maintain a positive attitude about life and shit like that, but I don't think it's in my nature, and the past week has been a sucky suckfest. But you don't want to hear about that, you want to hear: what ever happened to that earnest guy who loved to translate Petrarch and hide his condoms in obscure places? Well, I'll tell ya, I don't think I'll be calling this guy anytime soon. I present to you the bizarrely passionate e-mail he sent me. No, not passionate towards me, or towards the cause of peace, or towards Led Zeppelin or something I could understand, but towards a little magazine called Harper's.

We were e-mailing short conversational messages (a la "hey, I was in Vermont, it was so much fun...") and then I didn't hear from this guy for like a week, and then, this. It's in response to what I meant as a throw-away comment about a publication I don't like.

harper's is run by the Dead White Men's Club of New England. it's overbearing in its elitism; i prefer a lighter touch to gawking.

OK, maybe these are fighting words? I don't know. His response:

Elitism and gawking.. unlike... the New Yorker? [Last issue's
contents: a clucking piece on Hot 97 and the man "whose hip-hop name
is Gravy" (bringing immediately to mind their similar hip-hop-gawking
foray puff pieces on Eminem and Jay-Z), "Blue-collar Gold" -- can you
believe what these blue-staters laugh at?, in addition to a
have-you-heard - Mike Wallace actually going _barefoot_! this is in
addition, of course to the usual hacky politician-focused articles that
might as well be in the Nation where at least the readers contemplate
doing something about it.] Elitism and gawking, eh?

and this is just the last issue I happened to pick up.

I don't know how to define eliteism. I suppose featuring experimental
writers and contemporary art is now de facto eliteist. But the past
few cover articles -- post-oil-crash future, Spiegelman's piece on
offensive cartoons throughout history, real-estate ownership as serfdom
so politely praised, the regimented business spin insidious in
education reform. these are eliteist and gawking?

I don't know that they are.. I do know, though that they're ideas.
ideas that could possibly matter. it took a while before I came to
understand that this is not the best lure for a steady stable
readership of Upper East Siders, who would like some stories about
people, or food, or a chance for shaking their head at those silly
hip-hop artists or the coopting of corrupt politicians, all before
forgetting their issue on the glass tabletop when fretting over which
new restaurant over on Madison to choose this night -- maybe that one
mentioned in the New Yorker last month?

It took me a while to realize what the New Yorker really is. Sure, the
New Yorker has issue pieces. The New Yorker has politics, art,
science. Well, sort of. Actually, if you read iit it won't be
politics -- it'll be a politician. It won't focus on the science,
it'll investigate the personality of the scientist who scienced it.
Always the story will hone in on the artist (or the framer or the
curator) more than the art. You realize why the New Yorker (never the
more-dicey Harpers) shows up at the dentist's office -- right next to
the People. The New Yorker is all about people. Nearly every story is
biography and gossip in disguise. The New Yorker is People for People
who read (and who don't want People seeing them reading People.)

So, take the last two issues at random and tell me, why exactly is it
that Harpers is the gawking one? Or do you mean historically? Are you
talking about Barbara "Dead White Male" Ehrenreich's nickel and dimed
piece? The article five years ago about growing up poor on the
Mississippi and the evil effects that muddy river has? Where is it?
The vietnam article? The flashmob story (gawking perhaps, but gawking
at Williamsburg.) The superbowl article? The piece on
slaughterhouses and pig farming? (the new yorker, by contrast, sent
some person boar-hunting. much less depressing.) Ben Marcus' defense
of experimental fiction? -- you might wish the New Yorker treated
fiction half so seriously.

Happy I would be to go through whatever New Yorkers or Harpers I can
find and count. Count the pages before I hit some gawking -- at the
balefully naive and simple midwesterners, or the dumb, gullible
Southerners (inch by inch stealing our center of gravity). You want to
bet that happens earlier in the Harpers?

I suppose, in the end, I have mixed allegiances, really. It's true, of
course, Harpers is the One Magazine no Proper home should be without,
but true, now and then there have been good articles, the kind you wish
you wrote and are glad you read, in that other leading worthwhile
general-interest magazine. To be fair, though, I think in the end, the
important fact is that you don't have to pick one or other, you don't
need some blinkered allegiance to only one. You're allowed to pick
both! You can get both. So yeah, maybe I really should get that
subscription to the Atlantic.

It's sad, because I kind of liked this guy, but I feel that we're not yet at the stage in our relationship when he can go crazy because I don't like the same periodicals as him. (I only read the Emily Dickinson Quarterly and Barely Legal, I don't know why he keeps going on about the New Yorker.) Farewell, Earnest Guy. We hardly knew ye.

It's a sad sad sad sad sad world

2006-07-23T20:54:00.000-04:00

The Experiment: Go to a bar and try to pick up men.

Hypothesis: An oldie but a goodie. This "experiment" is also known as "every Thursday night" and it never really goes as I hope.

Expected Outcome: Passing out alone while watching Degrassi Junior High: The Next Generation.

There are a lot of things to get a girl down these days: Nobody wants to publish my poetry, my fantasy baseball team is slipping in the ranks, fighting with my roomie...

All this, and a mind-numbingly dull day job. Recently I've been spending a lot of time mooning about, listening to Bob Dylan, sighing heavily within earshot of others until they say, "Is everything OK?" Also, avoiding conversations about Israel. My new conversation mantra is "Let's not mention Israel."

So when my friend Crazy Jane called me up and said, "We are going out to pick up some Nice Jewish Boys" I jumped at the chance to get out of the house. Everybody has a friend like Crazy Jane: the kind of person you can't take to parties because the host will come up to you and say, "This tiny freakshow has crashed my party. Distract her while I get the net ready." Jane keels back and forth between maniacally happy and enraged. She gets worked up into fits, then twists her face, screams, "Who cares!" and laughs uproariously, all while I stare at the ground and try to avoid her flailing fists. But she is a lot of fun, and she has moments of great lucidity. She is also gorgeous, and a good person to go out with, because the boys love her. At least, until she starts talking.

So Crazy Jane and I went out to dinner, and I listened to her talk about all the hot sex she's having (she's always having hot sex, and is totally shocked when I'm like, "Oh, yeah, I think I had sex six months ago, I can't remember.") Then we went to a hipster joint and parked ourselves at the bar. We seemed to be the only women in the place. To our left were a pair of gents, and to our right, the same. Behind up, seas of men. We couldn't believe our luck. The one catch: every pair of men seemed to contain one hottie, and one ugg-o. I was annoyed until I realized Jane and I were part of the same configuration, with me comprising the unflattering part of the team. This is a horrible realization to have.

The other thing is, even though we were the only women for miles around, nobody came over to talk to us. We just sat there frozen in fear, too intimidated to hit on anyone, and too awkward to talk to each other. It was as though the embarrassment of masculine riches had dwarfed us. Crazy kept kicking me and whispering, "Go talk to them..." I think all the pressure had gotten to me. I had performance anxiety.

Finally some guy started chatting us up. We'd been ogling him because he was the most Semitic looking man in the place. He looked like the Jewish Aladdin. After about thirty seconds, though, we realized he was a complete idiot, so Crazy downed her drink and said, "We were actually just leaving," and dragged me out. The night was a bust, but Jane and I made a promise that we would try this once a month until something came of it. "We need practice," she said, before shrieking and taking off down the street. I thought this was just her being her usual freakish self, until I felt A RAT RUN OVER MY FOOT. If you know me, you know this is my worst nightmare coming true. A rat. Touching me. I burst into tears, and had to come home immediately. Where I passed out alone watching Canadian pre-teens. Things have not been going my way.

The good news is, I quit that dull job.

Sophomore Slump

2006-07-18T23:15:00.000-04:00

Well, kids, I went out on a follow-up date with old Earnesto about a week and a half ago, but I've been too busy to write about it. So here it is, in all its banality:

The Second Date is always bad. I don't know what it is about the second date, but you start to notice all the bad things about the person you were too excited to notice on the first date, but the "getting to know you" awkwardness still abounds.

Earnie and I met for drinks at a bar in his neighborhood. I made sure to tell him I'd be in his 'hood anyway, so that he would have to do the ask-back. I hate doing the ask-back, but my desperation requires that I'm always the one coming up with elaborate arguments for why a guy should go home with me.

We didn't meet until 10:00 on a Saturday night, so naturally I already had a few in me by the time I met him (I mean, who can wait until ten fucking o'clock?) We drank a bottle of wine and chatted about super dull topics like what states we'd lived in. One of my conversational tics involves constantly asking people to rank everything, like "What's your favorite brand of moist towelette?" or "What are your top three interstate driving experiences." But any time I indulged in this behavior, he looked perplexed. He would turn the question over in his head and say, "Hmm. Well, I suppose that the interstate is a formative site in the American identity." Disclaimer: I'm exaggerating. But he was so gosh darn serious about everything, I didn't know what to do. I liked it, but I didn't know how to engage with it.

Anyway, the evening wore on, we drank more, we went back to his apartment, we had the awkward pre-smooch yammer. I despise pre-smooch yammer. This is where you sit in a darkened room, usually on a couch or something, and talk about really really stupid shit and work up the courage to speak the truth like our good friend Kissy von Tonguenstein. All so you can get to what the whole date was really about: hot make out session. The nervous chatter went on for an agonizing twenty minutes until we started the actual smooching. Shortly thereafter, I was naked and in his bed, where I had the audacity to assume we would be having sex. "Do you have any condoms?" I asked. He became confused and disoriented. "Oh...Right. I guess? Um..."

I mean, was it wrong of me to assume that once he'd stripped off all my clothes and climbed on top of me that we'd be having sex? Am I a monster? I looked at him expectantly, so he went to get condoms. And I mean went. He had to go across the apartment and dig into a closet to get out a discrete box and then dig through the discrete box. Apparently, he keeps his family planning as far away from the bed as possible. Who does that? And why? He seemed so tentative about everything thereafter. When I talked to a friend about this, she brought up the possibility that he has feelings and hang-ups too, and that men are capable of profound emotional responses to sex. My theory is that he just thought I was too fat.

Anyway, now I'm playing the waiting game to see if he ever calls me. And, in the words of Homer Simpson: The waiting game sucks. Let's play hungry hungry hippos.

The Bad Kisser

2006-06-22T00:41:00.000-04:00

The Experiment: Go on a date with a boy my mother set me up with.

Hypothesis: My mother could never set me up with someone I could possibly like.

Expected outcome: A mediocre date that will lead nowhere.

Set 'Em Up We all love Mama Crash Tester. She's out there daily pounding the pavement for her little girl. She thrice said to me in the past two weeks, "I gave your phone number to some guy. I can't remember his name. Go out with him." Three different men! She was on such a roll that she accidentally gave my number to a gentile. I think she'd fallen into the habit, and it just came out. She was having dinner with some friends who were in town visiting their son, and their son brought along his roommate. Mom saw a single young man and immediately blurted: I have a daughter! She is pathetic! Take her out!

He called. I wouldn't usually go out with someone my mom picked out, especially a non-Jew (isn't that the only good thing about parental set-ups? finding a family-friendly guy?) but 1. It's not like the boys are pounding down my door and 2. I've got to experiment for my loyal reader. My mom kept saying, "He's a writer," so I figured at least we could talk about writing. During our phone chat he quoted Tom Wolfe and said, "the most important thing is to keep writing." I began to worry.

At least he didn't claim to be translating Petrarch.

Knock 'Em Down We met up for coffee. He wore a fedora and egregiously tapered jeans. And not a classy fedora, but what looked like a hat Bernie from Weekend at Bernie's might wear. It was vaguely paisley. But over coffee we had some some sustainably interesting conversation. I liked talking to him about baseball, movies, things that generally interest me. After coffee we went for a drink, and here's where the evening went downhill.

I mean, I wanted to keep talking about books 'n' stuff, but he was in the mood to take things to the next level. Unfortunately, I didn't find him attractive, so when he tried to turn the conversation towards all things sexual, I would turn it back to neutral topics. He asked me about past relationships, I asked about his novel. He told me some horror stories about ex-girlfriends, I asked him what his favorite Van Morrison album is. By this time I was ready to leave, but he nursed his beer for ages. He also edged closer to me and kept nestling up against me. "You sure are nursing that beer," says I. "I'm trying to work up the courage to kiss you," says he.

Shove Your Tongue At 'Em I didn't know what to do. In the moments between the declaration and the pounce the following thoughts all simultaneously popped into my head: Wait, I don't want to kiss this guy. What's the harm in kissing? Can I say NO? Would that be weird? Maybe I'll like making out with him? Before I had time to whip out my phone and dial my therapist's number for a quick session, though, he swooped in for the kill.

I think he was actually trying to eat my face, or possibly swallow my whole head. There wasn't even any soft lead-up kissing, it was just an immediate tongue down the throat/junior high-esque/Jeffrey Dahmer face-eating make out kiss. Once it had begun, though, I didn't know how to put the breaks on. Am I alone with this problem? What is proper etiquette for saying, "I like you, but I'm not in like with you, and PS you are the worst kisser ever"?

Escaping the Incredible Face-Devouring Machine During the pauses in our make-out session, I just kind of sat frozen while he stroked my arm and whispered sweet nothings. I felt bad, but I just wanted to go home in time to catch a Seinfeld re-run.

He was very pleased with himself. Sample between-smooching conversation

Him: Wow, I'm really glad I called you. Aren't you?
Me On The Outside: Yeah, it's great.
Me On The Inside: Where is the nearest exit?

Him: You and I will never have any problems with physical chemistry! Right? I mean, right?
Me On The Outisde: Um, right.
Me On The Inside: I'm repulsed by you.

Finally I felt like he was mauling me, so I demurely protested, "We're in public!" I finally had an out, and explained that I wanted to go, but he looked sheepish and said, "I'm gonna need a minute." The guy had gotten a hard-on from some public smooching! Finally, I stood up and said I wanted to get out of there. He very uncomfortably stood and walked out of the bar sort of side step. What is that? Does that actually happen?

Conclusion I suspect that I can never see this man again. I would like to be his buddy, but perhaps that is an impossibility?

Is it hot in here?

2006-06-18T21:22:00.000-04:00

The Experiment: Go on a date with an earnest, sensitive man. Try to have sex with this man, because goddamn it I haven't known the sweet touch of a man since Coach

Hypothesis: The sensitive man will say many things that cause me to cringe because they are so earnest.

Expected outcome: Let's play this one by ear.

The Meeting A while back I was in the local pub with some pals and this guy came over and hailed me by name. He said "You went to [my college} right?" He seemed to think we were old college buddies, but I didn't remember him at all. I asked if we had classes together. No. Was he in the English department? No. He said we had friends in common, but when I named some people, he didn't know any of them. It was all very fishy, but I went along. He claimed he was a grad student in the sciences while I was an undergrad. I couldn't imagine how we'd met.

My friends immediately decided that this was a con job, and that he was a stalker. They were unconvinced by the rehearsed assertions, "Yes, I had many fun times on Collegiate Quad and attending courses at Institution Hall." I was intrigued by this stalker theory, and went to question him some more. (As I later realized at my reunion, I don't remember anybody anyway. I think I have that Memento disease.) We chatted for some time and I gave him my e-mail address.

The e-mail:The Con Man wrote to me seeing if I still wanted to hang out some time. I was psyched, because, really, who ever asks me out, but as I read on the message took a turn towards the ugly. Con Job decided for some reason to extensively describe in faux-poetic detail his desire to engage in nautical-themed activities. Here's an excerpt:

there is lure in it, in the history of it -- the way if you look glaze-eyed at a subway map, the yellow gets all blurry and you notice the nexus of blue -- new york's original birth reason, there's the foreign language at our water's edge: the rolling guttural englishness of old seafaring terms, here furled through the thick accent of the grizzled old dutch sailor they got to review this stuff, there's the physics of it which is both clever and still slippery...

Painful!! At one point, he used the phrase "god's blue earth" which for some reason made me want to shoot myself in the head. Of course, I forwarded this to everybody I know to ask, "Why would this man write such a thing? Does he have emotional problems? Should I go out with him?" The ruling came back 5-2 in favor of going out with him. Straight Male Advisor Patrick said he was just trying to impress me because he knows I'm all up in the literature. "His only crime is trying too hard," says my advosiro. So I respond, yeah, let's hang.

Then, old Mr. Earnesto never replied. I was being rejected by a con man stalker with terrible writing impulses! Truly, it doesn't get worse than that. I'd hit rock bottom. But by now I'd gotten excited to go out with him, so I pursued again, and we made plans to meet up. He said he'd been too busy to write back because he'd been spending all his time "translating Petrarch." For real.

The Date Here's how you know you're going out with a real earnest guy: he wants to go see an off-off-Broadway play about man's search for meaning in the lost city. Now, I HATE the theater. Watching actors strut across the stage yelling contrived lines in oddly affected tones makes me squirm. I always want to yell out, "Dude! Just act NORMAL!" But I was trying to play it like I'm not the bitter chick who can only engage with irony. After all, I was trying to bag Mr. Earnesto.

The play was, predictably, horrible, but the good news was he also realized it was horrible. We went out and had many drinks (I do like to drink) and I genuinely enjoyed his company. He didn't mention god's blue earth or anything like that. He didn't mind that I smoke, or that I have a nervous habit of babbling while shifting around in my seat. He was, as the kids say, cool. All was going well until it was time to go home.

The Woo It's a very awkward thing to go home with someone. Start to finish, it's an uncomfortable process. He didn't seem to be asking me back to his place, because it's probably some bomb shelter from where he stalks unsuspecting young women. I asked if he wanted to come back to Brooklyn, which led to a painful journey back to my home. The period between the invitation and the making out is always the most awkward, shameful expanse of time, meant only to convince me that I'm a hardcore idiot.

How I Deal With Awkwardness: I babble about stupid shit. In the cab I rambled for no less than fifteen minutes about my air conditioner. I talked about the different ways I've installed it over the years, my concerns about the environment, my BTU's and my roommate's BTU's, on and on. It was like I couldn't stop. Finally, he was like, "Wow, sounds like you're really interested in air conditioning." To which I could only reply, "Um, yeah, it's really important to me." I was so humiliated by this conversation that when we finally got to my bedroom, I refused to turn the a/c on, even though it was like 400 degrees and we were all sweaty.

Sincere guys don't put out During our awesome make-out session I extended the invite to engage in sexual intercourse, but he was hesitant. " Gee, it's only the first date, I don't know, what do you think?" When he asked that I sort of shut down. Personally, I'm all about teleology. I want this mucking about taking off our clothes and touching to lead to the main event. Like, who leaves a show during the opening act? But he was a proper gent, one of the old fashioned sort who thinks that finger fucking is acceptable first date behavior, but certainly not sex. That's cool and all. I mean, he knows I won't buy the cow when I can get the milk or something like that. Or maybe he didn't want to get too involved with a freak who is obsessed with her air conditioner, but refuses to actually use it.

SMA Patrick asks an important question, which is, "What kind of guy doesn't want to have sex?" Maybe it's better to wait. I just don't know.

Conclusion I had fun, but, as usually happens during the awkward morning-after run-away, I wondered if I'll ever see him again.

Reuniting is hard to do

2006-06-01T00:59:00.000-04:00

The Experiment: Go to my five-year college reunion

Hypothesis:It'll be so great and I'll run into old friends and maybe reuinte with an old crush

Expected Outcome: Meaningful connections

For some reason, I decided to go to this thing. I sort of thought that it'd be fun. College was fun. The people were fun. Reunions, however, are NOT fun.

One of my major problems is that I never remember people. Almost every conversation I had this weekend went something like this.

Guy I've never seen before in my life: Hey! Crash Tester!
Me: Blank Stare
Guy: It's me, John Smith. We had like eight classes together.
Me: Um, OK.
John Smith: I dated your roommate Meredith, remember?
Me: I had a roommate named Meredith?

Apparently, I've forgotten everything that has happened to me in my life.

The reunion was semi-pathetic: a bunch of adults caught up in a manic fever to relive college in a compressed period of time. Mostly, it was just boring. Reunions are the kind of institutionalized group "fun" I never would have partaken of in college, which is probably why almost none of my college friends were there. Or maybe they were, and I just didn't remember them.

Also, I had nowhere to stay. I'm such a flake I didn't register or rent a dorm room like everybody else. Friday night I stayed with a darling couple who took pity on me and let me crash in their room (thanks so much, guys), but Saturday I had nowhere to sleep. The friends I thought I could stay with were determined to party all night, but I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I'd been up all week working on a seminar paper and spent the night before setting a record for most whiskey drunk by a non-alcoholic; now I was stuck confronting nostalgia and a healthy sense of insecurity all by myself. To make matters worse, I had gotten sick, lost my voice, and could barely rasp out the words, "I desperately want to go home."

So at two in the morning I went on a quest to find somewhere to crash. You would think most guys would be thrilled with a girl wandering up to them and saying, "Can I come home with you?" But when I tried this with some men I sort of know, they looked horrified. "I just need a patch of floor to bed down on," I told them. They almost keeled over from the awkwardness of the situation, and when I followed them back to the dorm, they acted so unbelievably uncomfortable I thought the world would end from the sheer force of their desire to get rid of me.

Luckily, just before the apocalypse of awkward, a friend called and said I could sleep on the floor of his dorm room. Where he wouldn't be. End result: two men I've never met before and I had a slumber party in my freshman dorm. This may or may not have made them uncomfortable, I was too tired to notice. Also, I learned what boys talk about with each other in the dark. They gossip about other boys.

On Sunday when I finally rolled into Penn Station I wept with joy to be back in New York. Instead of meaningful connections, I came home feeling lonelier than ever. Being alienated at home is easier to deal with, because I have TV, and at the very least I can call my mom and pick a fight with her. But being alienated three hundred miles away from my bed? It's too much.

Conclusion: I will not be at the tenth year festivities.

Sunshine State

2006-05-22T23:20:00.000-04:00

The Experiment:Publicly and drunkenly make out with a stranger at a friend's wedding

Hypothesis: This could be fun

Expected outcome: I'll feel a little less lonely, a little more kissable

Procedure:Let's get one thing straight. I was dead wrong about this one.

This weekend I went to a college friend's wedding in Florida. First of all, I hate Florida, possibly because I had to go to Miami on every single family vacation as a child, and if you know my family then you know that family vacations were more a time for deep traumatic scarring that fun in the sun. Also, I am a whiter shade of pale and can't go into the sun at all. I fear the sun. Furthermore, I have a very low tolerance for heat, and when it gets about eighty degrees I lose it. I'm like the Hulk; when I overheat I swell up and scream, "get me air conditioner or I smash smash!"

I'm one of those New Yorkers that people in the red states hate because I'm so cut off from "real America" and eat sushi and drive a Volvo and other terrible sins. I get this from my parents, who have lived on the island of Manhattan for their whole lives and believe the rest of the country to be a bunch of anti-Semitic fat people. When my dad met my college roommates, who were both from California, he genuinely asked them, "How do people even get to live out there? Are you descended from goldminers?" So, you see, my NY-centricity is deeply ingrained, and I don't love to leave my comfort zone. I booked a very short amount of time, just 24 hours, to be in Florida.

But then I missed my flight and had to spend eight hours cobbling together a series of flight to get there in time. So at the reception I figured, what with the open bar and my limited time to enjoy myself, I deserved to have a few drinks. Eight glasses of wine later, I'm chatting with the only single guy at the wedding. He is unattractive and not too bright, the kind of guy who thinks that if he keeps saying things like, "you've got pretty eyes" and "wow, you have a great vocabulary" (this is an exact quote) I will swoon away. All I was thinking was, "How can I get a kiss from Ugly here? I MUST get a kiss." Something about weddings makes me desperate to get with a boy, any boy, which I think is fairly common. All the talk of commitment and lifelong love makes me want to go out and sleaze it up. When he was leaving he asked for my phone number, even though he lives in California. (How did he get there?) I sloshed out the question, "Hey, can I get a kiss before you go?"

Hence the public face sucking. But as soon as it ended and he left, I regretted it. I went to talk to the bride and she said, "I hear you were making out with Tommy?" I was momentarily confused, because I didn't know the guy's name, but then I felt terribly ashamed of myself. This was a small wedding, a polite affair, not the raging party-wedding you might be thinking of. The bride is a sweet, virginal-type of girl who consider me "wild" because I stay up past midnight. And here I was making an ass of myself by slobbering all over a complete idiot I didn't even like. I felt so bad I started apologizing to the bride, saying things like, "I wasn't hitting on him! I'm not using your wedding to pick up men!" Fumbling over these words, I burned with even more shame at my incoherent rambling. I blame the heat.

In the end, it wasn't worth the bad feelings just to collect the kiss I was angling for.

Worst Pick-Up Line Ever

2006-05-09T15:29:00.000-04:00

Setting: I am walking down the street in the E Village. A shaggy-looking guy approaches me.

Shaggy Guy: Excuse me, can you spare a quarter?
Me: Sure, here you are. (Generously give him a quarter)
Shaggy: Hey, do you have a boyfriend?
Me: Wha?
Shag: You're cute. You have a boyfriend?
Me: (walking away)

Scene

Now, I may be a little desperate, but I still won't date a guy who begs for change on the street. Call me shallow, but I like a man who can pay for dinner in whole dollar bills. That's just how I roll.

And the runner-up for worst pick-up line comes from Saturday's entry.

Setting: A small house party Saturday night/Sunday morning. A drunken buffoon gesticulates wildly at me.

Drunken Buffoon: (Points to the ground) Come here.
Me: Wha?
DB: Come here. I want to talk to you.
Me: (running away)

Unless you are a parent addressing a nine year old who has just done something very bad, that is a poor way of chatting somebody up.

Anybody care to share the worst line used on him/her?

Deal or no deal?

2006-05-03T20:22:00.000-04:00

OK, kids, I'm back. Sorry for the hiatus. Let's get back to some experimentation.

Today's entry is in honor of my new least favorite TV show. One of my favorite new pastimes is to hate this weird Howie Mandel enabling trainwreck starring a portable phone and some suitcases. Another one of my favorite pastimes is the Dealbreaker game, also known as "The BF game." The premise is simple. You have a great new BF, and he's awesome, BUT he's got this one thing...is it a dealbreaker for you? Here are some questions to consider.

So, you have this great new BF but...

1. He sleeps with a teddy bear. He puts it in the bed between you guys.

2. He names his penis. He names it his name + "junior"

3. He says "I don't own a TV" (by which he means "I think I'm better than you, couch slob")

4. His favorite comedian is Howie Mandel.

5. Whenever he comes, he screams "Mama"

6. You meet online and he sends you a picure of himself with his mother/daughter and says "she's the bodacious one."

7. He accepts JC as his personal savior, and when he thinks something is bad, he says "That's not cool with JC, so it's not cool with me."

8. He can't get an erection unless Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" is playing.

9. His go-to porn mag is "Barely Legal."

10. He believes it was "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve."

11. Once, many years ago, when he was a teenager, and he was very drunk, he had sex with a dog. He will freely admit this, but he says he would never do it again.

12. He doesn't know where your clit is.

13. He says, "I don't like to read books."

14. He doesn't drink.

15. You get upset and cry, and he says, "crying is a sign of weakness."

I think these are all dealbreakers for me. It's good to ask yourself these questions. The unexamined life, after all, isn't worth living.

My teddy bear, myself

2006-04-21T15:23:00.000-04:00

Yes. I know. I haven't posted in a while. My loyal fan base of three has gotten on my case about this. But, well, for a little while I didn't have any material, and then earlier this week my only uncle passed away, so I didn't much feel like writing. My uncle was insane (literally, certified) but he was kind, and, as my mother says, "he was ours."

If there is ever a time that will make you wish for a partner, it's when you are mourning. My parents and brothers are married, so they've all got somebody to hold onto. It's amazing how much I have been craving a simple hug, and how good it feels when I get one. The night I found out, my friend Steph was lovely enough to let me sit on the couch and hold onto her arm while we rotted our brains watching MTV. (Note: never watch "My Super Sweet Sixteen." You will instantly become an idiot.) It was soothing to just touch another person's arm and ground myself. Without that touch, I felt like I was going to keel over.

The worst is at night, in bed, when I just have to lie there and feel the absence that has suddenly taken up residence in my life. I'm not ashamed to admit (OK, I'm a little ashamed to admit) that I had to take my teddy bear off the shelf and fall asleep clutching it on more than one night. Is that weird? Adults forget how comforting some stuffed cloth can be. When I was a kid I was scared of being alone in the dark, so at night I'd surround myself with a fortress of plush animals. In the morning I'd wake up and they'd be scattered all over the floor. A model for all future relationships?

Anyway, don't you worry about me. I've gotten so far behind on work that I can redirect all my grief into anxiety, which is a far more familiar emotion. And, as a callous friend remarked, maybe I'll meet a boy at the shiva. Nothing spells romance like a minyan.

It's raining married people

2006-04-10T22:01:00.000-04:00

Well, friends, the bad news is that recently the magazine where I was freelancing folded. This means 1)Less spending cash for me, but 2) I can focus on my studies and also 3)Most important of all, I have more time to blog. And search for love. And sleep in. So, I'm trying to work up a word-of-mouth campaign here, and you, yes you, can help. If you know someone who likes the internets, say "Hey, you know what's a good time? This blog about a girl who can't for the life of her get a date." It'll be much appreciated by all parties.

Today's Failed Experiment is evidence to my lack of observation skills. I set out a task for myself: I had a brief conference with a colleague about the class I teach. He was a young attractive professor-type assigned to observe my class and give me and my department feedback, and I thought, this is a man, I like men, let's give it a go.

So I put on some lipstick and walked into his office with a mission: Use this professional setting to make this man go on a date with me. I checked for a wedding ring, and saw nothing. Green light! He was nice, smart, attractive, new to this city (and therefore likely single). After about twenty minutes of working my charm, though, I looked down and saw the dread wedding ring. I had checked the wrong hand! Left hand! LEFT hand! Abort! Abort! The good news is, he gave me a positive teaching evaluation.

Later I went to my graduate seminar and looked around to notice myself in a sea of wedding bands. Even my gay professor had one. I mean, good for him, he deserves that right, but I had a vision of myself as the sudden spinster, and I'm only twenty-six. Later, I was chatting with two such married men, and a third guy came over. Let's call him Guy I've Had A Crush On For A Year But Who Still Doesn't Know My Name. Turns out GIHACOFAYBWSDKMN just got engaged. This announcement led to a round of "Being married is so great," my least favorite game. But the boys wanted to talk about how much they love contractually binding relationships, so I smiled and nodded. The future opened up for me, and it didn't look pretty.

Luckily, I'm home now, back in good old Singleville. The air may not be as clean as in Married Town, but the drinks are better. Also, it's Monday night, when we play "Being single is so great," my favorite game.

Gettin' Lucky in North Carolina

2006-04-06T21:38:00.000-04:00

A couple of weekends ago Friend Bethela decided to conduct an experiment that would land her some lovin' and a spot on this blog. She sent me a field report that made me blush. This is her first one night stand, which is pretty amazing. My first one nighter was in a broom closet with a guy who came in three seconds, so I'm very impressed. Check it out:

The Experiment: Go to the most conservative Christian wedding ever in the most conservative town ever and have a one-night stand with anyone

Hypothesis: I will be able to find someone to have sex with

Expected outcome Sex. Good, bad. Doesn't matter.

Procedure: After leaving the wedding and asking around about places to go out in this small North Carolina town next to an army base, B headed to a strip club. By herself. That's right.

The club was your average titty bar: Big fat bouncer, cheesy DJ, average looking girls. I immediately bought two beers and sat myself down at a table right in the middle of the stage and began to watch. Now, any woman that comes to a strip club by herself would illicit some stares, but coupled with the fact that I was wearing a white dress that glowed fiercely in the black lights of the club made me stick out like a sore thumb. I could tell that people were trying to figure me out: Was I a stripper? Was I a lesbian? What the fuck was I doing there? It was the exact feeling I had when I was sitting alone at the wedding reception, but way more fun.
So anyway, I started tipping some of the girls which caused the men to stare in earnest with bated breath. One girl, stuck her head under my skirt and zerbert-ed on my lady parts. The other girl straddled me, made some dry humping moves, then licked my nipple. The men were going crazy over it and started handing me there money so I could tip the girls some more. Men are so dirty. But helping the girls make more money did make me feel good.

Other highlights from the strip club include me getting pulled onto the stage, lying down and having a half naked woman rub her body all over me; two lap dances that men bought me so they could watch; a closed-mouth kiss with a stripper that I was tipping that whipped the men into a frenzy that I have never seen or could have ever imagined; and a 20-minute conversation with a soldier a about his dissertation on economics (I know, I wasn't the only college-educated person there).

Now, our indefatigable heroine decides to go to a regular, non-strip club, and get down to picking up locals an hard-core man-eating. There she meets a Justin Timberlake lookalike who is lucky enough to get a ticket back to her hotel room. Here's what ensued:

The foreplay was intense. While I was driving, he was kissing me, sucking my nipple, fingering me. It was so crazy. He intensified his efforts by saying some of the dirtiest things I had ever heard:

"When we get to your hotel, I'm going to eat you for at least 30 minutes. OK? Thirty minutes, at least."

"Where does your cunt belong? (me: in your mouth) Good girl. That's right.

"Tell me you want to have my brown babies."
(I would like to point out that B did, in fact, tell him this. I guess you never know what you'll say in the moment.)

When we finally got to the sex, it was quite good. Two orgasms and three hours worth of dirty talk later, I was done, and he wasn't even close. Whisky dick was in full effect and he just couldn't finish. I talked him off my body and convinced him to go to sleep, which he did after rubbing my butt and jacking off. I'm pretty sure he fell asleep, dick in hand, muttering to himself, As soon as we wake up, I'm fucking you.

And that he did. At 7:45 a.m., the alarm went off and so did Mr. Timberlake. With the kind of energy that can only be attributed to youth and regular exercise, he ravaged my body once again. This time, we did it in front of the mirror which I hoped would help him along and speed things up a little since I had to hurry up and check out so I wouldn't miss my flight. I got my fourth at 7:53, looked at the clock and said, "You have seven minutes."

Mr. Timberlake, always one with the dirty talk, says, "Then I have got to ride you doggy style." Two minutes later, we were done and in a flustered hurry, I packed up all of my shit, got dressed, and checked out of the hotel with no time to even wash the sex off of me.

Conclusion: Mission accomplished. I got the sex I needed in an unlikely place under impossible circumstances. And that, my friends, is how a man-eater does it.

Thanks for sharing, Bethela

It's black, it's white, yeah yeah yeah, whoo

2006-04-03T23:05:00.000-04:00

A cultural exchange is under way! Friend Bethela and I are sharing and caring these days, giving a demonstration of our open-minded desperation. First up, she takes me to what she calls "Black Man Heaven," a mostly black club. In turn, I take her to some sort of Jewish social gathering, if I ever go to one. My parents' horror show of a Seder doesn't count, as the idea is to introduce Bethela to some hot Semitic men, and not a group of crazed maniacs screaming "where's the goddamn bitter herb?"
Now, B is a southern black woman, and, though she will deny this, I truly believe I am the first Jew she has ever known, so she was psyched to show me a bit of her culture. She wanted to make a contest of it: which girl would get the most attention?

The Experiment: Go to a black club.

Hypothesis: I didn't have a hypothesis, I just wanted to dance. Bethela, however, thought that my pallid skin and awkward gyrations would prove a powerful aphrodisiac to the Afro-Am male.

Expected outcome: A real fish-out-of-water tale, replete with interracial hijinks.

Procedure: It's no secret that I am the whitest of white girls. My interests include being uptight, listening to Van Morrison, and burning after about two minutes in the sun. So I was worried that I'd feel self-conscious.

Before arriving at the club, B assured me that everybody there would know all the songs, and I wouldn't know any. As there was no Van, no Zepp, no Cheap Trick, she was absolutely correct. However, when she informed me that this would be "Black Man Heaven," she was dead wrong. It was Black Man Dumping Ground. Not a single cutie in sight. Every guy I danced with had a severe need for orthodontia. Also, they all wanted to hold my wrists while we danced, which I found peculiar.

Now, I'll admit that I have a sort of problem. I love to dance, but I don't like to dance with straight guys. I'm don't enjoy being grabbed at or having someone grind up against me. It produces in me an acute anxiety not unlike stage fright. What should I be doing? Should I grind back? Why can't we just have some lemonade and get to know each other before we get to the dry humping? But I was so eager to feel accepted that whenever I felt somebody grabbing at me, I went along for the ride. Eventually, I settled on one dude because he was tall and he told me I was pretty. These are the two best qualities a man of any race can posses: height, and an adoration of me.

I spent the rest of the night in Tall Black Man's sweaty arms, prompting B to take more pictures than my mom at my graduation. (At one point I swear I heard B sob, "My baby's all grown up!") Tall Black Man knew every word to every single song, and, every time the DJ switched tracks kept saying "Oh, come on, you gotta know this one!" Then he would sing the whole tune in my ear. Eventually this grew tiresome, and B and I left.

It turned out, I did win the attention-getting contest, but only because, if anybody smiled at me, I was all over it.

Conclusion:Black, white, or other, a dance club is a dance club. Loud, sweaty, and full of unattractive men who want to get too close for comfort.

STAY TUNED TO CRASHTESTDATING to hear about Bethela's sexcapades in conservative North Carolina!

Drooling Redhead on R Train

2006-03-28T16:44:00.000-05:00

The Experiment: Post a "Missed Connection" on Craigslist

Hypothesis: This will never work.

Expected Outcome: A waste of the fifteen minutes it takes to post the listing.

Of course, if I weren't posting, I'd probably spend that fifteen minutes staring at a blank wall and contemplating how, though technically superior, Back to the Future Part I lacks the epic breadth of Part II and the camp whimsy of Part III. There are probably only fifteen minutes in the day that I DON'T waste, so I might as well give this a shot.

Procedure: Unless you live off the L train or the Washington DC Metro, you very rarely spot a hottie on the subway. Most people on NYC transit look like they only recently scraped themselves together from dirt and hair scraps found on the floor of the DMV.

So, the other day, when I hopped on the train and spotted The Guy, the physical embodiment of my "perfect man," I was shocked. My jaw slackened, some spittle ran down my chin, and I launched into hardcore ogling for about five minutes. Until he looked over and caught me mid-leer. I blushed, like the sweet innocent that I am. Then I spent the rest of the subway ride staring at my shoes thinking "La La La, we're in lo-o-ove. Subway Guy and I are totally soul mates!"

Unfortunately, Subway Guy and I never had a chance to make things work. We parted ways without a word. So, at a friend's suggestion, I went onto Craigslist. Most of the "Missed Connections" read as such, "You were on the street. So was I. You wore a dress, and I wore a coat, and we smiled at one another." How could anybody recognize that?

I, on the other hand, was as specific as possible. Time, train, clothing, eye color. Everything but my social security number (I usually don't reveal my SSN until the second date. I'm just not that kind of girl.) But, alas, I never heard anything from Subway Guy. Maybe he didn't love me after all.

Conclusion Meaningless ogling does not necessarily lead to a loving relationship.

Pimpin' ain't easy. Just ask my mom

2006-03-22T19:07:00.001-05:00

Well, it's that dreaded part of the day. That 3:30-5 pm time slot when despair really hits, when you begin to question why the hell you are working where you are, doing what you're doing, wasting your youth and your potential, etc. And worst of all, it's after lunch but too far from dinner, so there really is nothing to look forward to.

So I thought that I'd use this time to answer that all-important question: what does my mother think about my love life? This is part one of the ongoing experiment that is the mother-daughter relationship.

Experiment Try to cope with Mom's desperate attempts to marry me off tNice Jewish Boy.

Hypothesis My mother won't leave me alone until I'm married.

Set Up Last year all three of my older brothers got married. It was a joyous if stressful time for my family, but now that they are all wed, my mom has turned her sights on me.

She has been trying to fix me up with appropriately marriageable men since I was in college. This has mainly involved her giving my phone number out to any and every single Jewish man that enters her radar. She hands my number out like candy. If you're ever in a men's bathroom and you see "For a good time, call Crash Tester P" scribbled on the wall, that's my mom. She's workin' for her baby.

Every once in a while I'll get a call from Asher Cohen-Levenstein who will tell me his Aunt Hadassah gave him my number. The first time I got such a call I was in college and actually had a boyfriend, though he did not meet Mom's criteria (i.e. he was a raging gentile). I've never gone out with any of these guys, but that doesn't stop my parents, or any of their friends, from trying to pimp me out.

Question Whenever I go to my parents' apartment, my mom waits until the exact right moment to pounce, and then, when her time has come, she'll ask in the most off-handed way, as though the question just popped into her mind for the first time ever, "So, have you met anybody?" After that it can go one of two ways. I either break down and moan about how I'll be alone forever and nobody loves me, or, as is usually the case, I play it coy.

Mom: So, have you met anybody recently?
Me: I meet lots of people
Mom: I mean, like, a nice boy?
Me: Not since you asked me on Tuesday.

What ensues then is my mother's instructions on how to catch me a man. Here are some of my Mom's expert dating tips:

1. Don't be so picky. You're not so perfect yourself.

2. Just because you go out with a guy doesn't mean that you have to like him. He may have friends.

3. No need to act so smart. Nobody has to know how intelligent you are.

4. What you really need to do is "put yourself out there."

5. Why don't you go to a Jewish Mixer?

6. You could hang out outside of the NYU Law Library. That way, you could meet men who will be lawyers.

That last one baffles me the most. Like if I just stand around on 4th street, the lawyers will come flocking to me? I'm a litigation magnet!

Anyway, the last time I went home, I asked my mother to set me up, for "an experiment." She looked skeptical, but also thrilled,. So have no fear, readers, I may be single and atheistic these days, but Mama's on the case. Asher Cohen-Levenstein, I'm waiting by the phone...

10 Movies to Make You Glad You're Single

2006-03-20T00:22:00.000-05:00

So today is the first day of spring. As I'm sure you know, spring is the season of love, when flowers bloom, coats come off, and young couples walk the streets hand-in-hand, mocking us single folks who have to cross the street all by ourselves. It used to be that when I saw any such couple strolling to the park all lovey-dovey, I would get sad and think something like "What's she got that I don't got? I bet she's a real dolt. I bet he's a dolt, too. I hate them. GOD, I'M SO ALONE!"

But now I'm trying some new positive thinking. There are plenty of reasons to feel OK about not having a partner. For example, being alone allows you to feel superior to those who are "tied down" and "have to answer to the old ball and chain." So listen up, my brothers and sisters in singlehood, now that it's the season for getting down on our lifestyle, I've got a list of movies to remind you that coupledom is for squares.

1. Gone With the Wind I recently watched this movie for the first time. It was billed as romance, and it seemed to consist mostly of people grabbing each other and gasping "Don't you know that I love you?" But really, it's about a love affair between a strong woman and a great piece of real estate. Who needs Rhett and Ashley, when you've got some killer digs? That, and an awesome mammy.

2. Sleepless in Seattle A canonical romantic comedy that is neither romantic nor comedic. If this is love, I want no part of it.

3. Thelma and Louise LET'S KEEP GOING, LOUISE!

4. Muppets from Space Fantastic flick about the value of friendship. Gonzo feels like he's all alone in the universe, only to realize that he's never alone when his felted friends are around. Even though Gonzo's chicken fetish has always creeped me out, I overidentify with him here. You and me, Gonzo, we aren't so alone after all!

5. Casablanca OK, we get it, Bogie's a tough guy. Can we move on? If this is love, love is bo-ring.

6. Harold and Maude If you want to sing out, sing out, and if you want to be free, be free... Life and banjo playing can go on even after your geriatric lover kicks it. This movie just makes me happy to be alive.

7. The Sound of Music Now, this movie makes me angry to be alive. That scene where the girl dances around a greenhouse singing about being sixteen? I'm enraged just thinking about it. If you ever want to feel like a curmudgeon, check this shit out.

8. March of the Penguins Another movie that was supposed to show the power of love. But I watched this movie, and it was just a bunch of penguins standing around while Morgan Freeman got all hysterical about some eggs. If anything, this movie reminded me of how relationships are sort of dull. And how they end once you get hungry.

9. Texas Chainsaw Massacre Not the fun romp the title would suggest.

10. Annie Hall This is my favorite movie of all time. In the end, it doesn't matter that he loses the girl. All that matters is that he ever knew the girl to being with.

So stop enjoying all that nice weather and get to a couch. Happy spring, guys.

I Love Huge Cock, But I'm Not in Love With Huge Cock

2006-03-16T14:36:00.000-05:00

I am truly an inspiration, people. Field Researcher Lady A has filed a report of her recent sexperiment, and I think you'll find it quite illuminating. I'm so glad that I can motivate my crack team of date-scientists to get out there and try new things.

The Experiment: Have sexual intercourse with a man with a large penis.

Hypothesis: Sex with a man with a large penis will be significantly different/more exciting than sex with a regular penis.

Expected Outcome:Mind-blowing casual sex.

Lady A began her report by announcing that she is not, in fact, a "size queen." If you are anything like me, you have no idea what this means, and, quite frankly, don't want to know.

Procedure: Lady A and Straight Male Advisor Patrick (Don't misquote this guy) went down to Philadelphia on Saturday to binge drink. Apparently, they'd run out of reasons to binge drink within the five boroughs. Maybe it would've been nice if they'd invited me, but that's cool. I mean, I spent six hours Saturday mulling over the possibility of going to the grocery store before getting back into bed at 4 pm, so it's not like I need them.

Anyway, SMA Patrick's old buddy Dirk Diggler joined them on their tour of local brew pubs, and, what with Dirk being a big-and-tall sort, Lady A figured he'd be the perfect candidate for Operation Have Sex With a Huge Cock. After they headed back to his apartment to "smoke the doob" and "just kick it," she worked her seductive magic. In her words:

Get upstairs, clothes come off and he does in fact have a very large penis, particularly where girth is concerned. While it may not have been as big as some of you size queens have experienced, it was definitely the biggest, girthiest dick I have ever seen. He also only had Magnum condoms, a rarity in my sexual experience.

Outcome: The sex was... OK. Not great but not bad either. In addition to a big dick, he also has a lot of stamina so we had sex 3 times during the course of the night/early morning. The penis was large, but his techniques as a lover were a bit lacking. I have decided that if his dick had been smaller, or average, the sex would have been worse, but size was not able to compensate for skill.

Additional observations: I think the sex was also hindered by 2 things:
1. he has man boobs.
2. he had the worst, most noxious gas that I have ever been exposed to in life. Ever.

Conclusion: Size does matter, sorta, but it definitely is more about the "motion of the ocean and not the size of the ship that counts"

I have to give credit to the woman who can successfully integrate the phrase "motion of the ocean" into any discourse.

Notable Quotables

2006-03-14T14:17:00.000-05:00

I know it's taken a few days to update everybody's fave new blog, but I've been doing the market research, asking the people what they want. Straight Male Advisor Patrick had some sage words:

I want to hear more about your humiliations. It makes me feel better about my own life.

(N.B.: Straight Male Advisor Patrick concluded this advisory meeting by announcing "I really want to find the perfect woman. But I'd rather just eat a fatty snack. Maybe you should go to a bar a french fry on your lip, see what happens." So we know that he is the best consultant for the blog)

Well, I am here to serve the people some of what they love the most: schadenfreude. I've drafted a list, compiled from the archives of my sad, sorry dating history, of the worst things ever said to me on a first date.

1. "I really like your friend Kate [who set us up]. Does she have a boyfriend?

2. Setting: his apartment. We are smooching innocently, fully clothed, perhaps some over-the-shirt petting. Suddenly, he unzips his jeans and pulls out a fully erect cock
Me: Um, What do you want me to do with that?
Him: Just touch it.
Me: ...
Him: Please, just touch it.
Me: (halfheartedly poking)
Him: Oh!OHH!
Me: Can you walk me to the subway?

3. "I'm...so sorry."

4. Him: You look just like my last girlfriend. She had red hair and brown eyes, too.
Me: My eyes are blue
Him: Anyway, she really broke my heart.

5. Setting: Lying in post-coital embrace. This being the first date, it wasn't a terribly tender post-coital embrace.
Him: You know, I've never done a smart chick before.

6. "I LOVE Peter Gabriel."

7. "I'm a Republican."

8. "You study English? Ha, I speak English!"

9. "For a girl from New York, you certainly can eat!"

I have no idea what this last one was supposed to mean, and I wasn't sure on what level I should be offended. But I knew it was some level, so went ahead and got offended.

The sad fact of the matter is, even though all these guys were jerks, I stuck around most for a second date. To hear the gems that came out of their mouths then, just wait for the next installment.

E-mail me your best-worst first date quotes

Craig T. Nelson is my Co-Pilot

2006-03-08T02:07:00.000-05:00

The Experiment: Ask a man I've just met, point blank, to go home with me.

Hypothesis: Would a guy really turn that down?

Expected Outcome: Mediocre anonymous sex

Procedure: Here's the thing: It's damn hard for a gal like me to meet that special someone who will use me for sex and then move on to someone prettier. I mean, am I asking for too much here? Life in this city is lonely at best, and a desperate pit of alienation on any given Tuesday. I get that the search for true love and meaning and all that might actually be a futile one, but the search for a cutie to take advantage of me? Should that be so difficult?

Much of my extraordinarily long dry spell has probably been my own fault. There comes a point in many drunken nights, when you've been talking to a guy at a party or bar or some such place, when you realize, "I could go home with this guy." Then the question is "Is it really worth all the trouble?" The awkward invitation, the painful pre-smooch yammer, the disrobing, it's all a lot of effort. Usually, I'd rather go home, devour a bag of chips, and pass out in my clothing. But Saturday night, with the help of about eight drinks and a group of friends rallying to finally, finally get me laid, I figured it was time to go for it. On my way out the door, I marched right up to the young cutie I'd been dancing with, interrupted his conversation with his friend and said "So, do you want to go home with me."

To confirm the hypothesis, he said "Sure." His friend just smiled and walked away. Keep in mind that this gent looked like he was about nineteen. He was actually twenty-four, but he had that fresh-faced look of a Sophomore playing quarters in a dorm kitchen, which, in these days of impending fifth-year-reunion and collegiate nostalgia, was sort of a turn-on, and made the whole thing not intimidating at all. Plus, he said he was just in for the weekend. An out-of-towner is always looking for a good time, yes? Before the Bold Move, my darling pals and I stood at the door for about five minutes, having a conversation that went something like this.

Friends: Take that twelve year old home!
Me: I...I don't know.
Friends: Do it! You must!
Me: Hey, wanna go to McDonald's?
Friends: For the love of God, would you just have sex already?

How To Deal: with the pitfalls of taking a boy home when you never expected to take a boy home:

1. Turns out the boy coaches college athletics, and still lives in his college town. I think there might be people in this world who call him "Coach," which is dangerously close to "Mr. [Gym Teacher's name]." But the fact of his being an athlete meant that beneath his ginormous sweatshirt he was cut, and I felt even more self-conscious about my out-of-shapery than usual. If you aren't expecting anybody to see your body, you don't care if you skip the gym (nine months in a row) or forget to shave.
HOW TO DEAL with body issues: Just forget about it. I mean, this guy is actually getting the pleasure of your erotic company, so he has no right to complain.

2. My bedroom looked like it had been raided by the CIA, who, after the search, decided to kick back, have about ten diet cokes, and lay cigarette butts on any free surface. During my Great Shame Spiral of '06 I had let everything go to seed, and, though I kept vowing to get it together, I was too damn busy. I mean, those police procedurals weren't going to watch themselves. And, well, somebody in this house has to be napping, so it might as well be me!
HOW TO DEAL with your own squalor: Say "you may not comment on the filth I live in." This didn't actually work. He commented anyway.

3. I hadn't done laundry in about a month (see above) so I was down to the desperation underwear. I was wearing a pair of stockings I once bought by accident without reading the title "girdle top." People, I was wearing a GIRDLE! I'm no Jennifer Aniston, but I don't often wear granny garments.
HOW TO DEAL with bad lingerie: Rush along foreplay, so the clothes come off stat, before anybody has time to look at you and say, "Hey, fatty, are you actually girding your fat?"

The Morning After: He woke up early, and roused me with the always romantic "'tsup, P?" I was too hungover to formulate words. He seemed in a big rush to leave, even though he had no idea where he was or how to get to back to where he was crashing. I kept slurring "do you need directions?" Roughly translated, this meant, "Please leave and make this awkwardness end." The morning marked the first time after a one-night stand I didn't exchange information or pretend we would see each other again. And, surprisingly, that was a huge relief. I genuinely liked this guy; he was smart and fun and charming, but it was great to escape the twin anxieties of "will he call" and "do I like really him?" Over and done with. Even my pals felt great about it. After all, they peer-pressured me out of perhaps the longest dry spell in the history of Brooklyn twentysomethings. Win-win!

Conclusion: Mediocre anonymous sex gets a bad rap. If the guy is likeable, it's not a bad way to spend an evening. Almost as good as devouring chips and passing out in your clothes.

The Internet is for Lovers

2006-03-08T00:24:00.000-05:00

The Experiment: Go on a Friendster Date

Hypothesis: In our Friendster messages, this guy seems great. We will fall in love.

Expected Outcome Great new lover.

Procedure Now, it may shock you to know that I am a Luddite. Until I started this blog, I didn't even fully understand the concept of a Web page. So the whole idea of Internet dating still makes me think of those early days of the Information Superhighway, when we all heard stories of girls going out with men they'd met in chat rooms, only to find themselves locked in a torture dungeon thinking, "Man, I wish I'd just picked somebody up in a bar like the rest of the world."

But when a fellow sends me a message on Friendster showing interest in some things I, too, am interested in, well, it seems like maybe it's time for me to join this MySpace Generation all the mags are buzzing about. His pictures look good. His profile looks good. His e-mails are delightful. We exchange messages for two weeks expounding on our love of bad movies and bubble gum, and then we decide to meet up for a drink.

I walk into the designated East Village establishment and spot him sitting at the bar. The first thing I notice is that the man's legs don't even touch the ground. I search the bar in hopes that there will be a tall glass of water lurking in the back. No such luck. It's shorty.

I tell myself, don't be so judgmental. So what if this guy is shorter than me? I am an open-minded individual who loves all peoples. And I haven't kissed a boy in almost six months. I'd better just suck it up and stoop over.

There are other problems, though. His hair is so greasy it's matted to his forehead. He resembles Milhouse from the Simpsons. When I tell him I'm getting a Ph.D he replies "So, you're, like, what? A really good student?" Saying this doesn't make him bad or stupid, just really, really irritating.

But instead of leaving, I decide to stick it out and have a few more rounds. Maybe things will improve. Here is but a sample of the evening:

1. He buys the second round. When time comes for the third, he says "This one is on you. Because remember, I bought your last drink." A prince among men, this guy.

2. After only two drinks, he's pretty drunk. He tries to get all romantical by sliding down in his seat, as though he were about to disappear under the table, and attempting to play footsie with me. FOOTSIE! He completely misses my feet and kicks my shins.

3. Again, Rico Suave endeavors to get intimate by reaching across the table to pat my head. He pulls a strand of my hair (trying to stroke tenderly?) and says "Your hair is, like, so cool. It just falls in your face." Should I tell him that my special secret is shampoo?

4. At the end of the night he announces "You're so hard to read. There are some things I don't like about you, but I find you attractive and would like to see you again." Is it feelings time? I giggle and kiss him goodbye, eager to get home and tell my roommate and bestest friend everything that has just happened. I need the talking cure to purge me of the evening.

Epilogue: I didn't return his first e-mail, so he wrote again, saying "P, I really think we have some potential, and we should give it another shot." I begin to fear the torture dungeon, and consider deleting my Friendster profile.

Conclusion: You can't tell anything from a person's online persona.

WELCOME!

2006-03-06T22:38:00.000-05:00

The Experiment: Start a blog. Search for love, sex, and companionship. Write about said search in blog.

Hypothesis: Ah, it'll be pretty good

So here it is, what you've been waiting for, my any-means-necessary lab-crobatics meant to find the boy who will rock my world, or at least entertain me between episodes of Lost.