"My Very Worst Date"

My date with Schnitzel story was picked up on another bad date blog: http://myveryworstdate.com/

I love the picture they chose:

Little pig, little pig, let me in!

I live on the first floor of a brownstone apartment building. The front door to my apartment faces the building vestibule and is in between the front door to the outside of the building and the door that leads to the other units.

Over the years, I’ve learned to tune out the noise from the vestibule. Guests coming in and out of each door. Deliverymen getting buzzed into the building. Neighbors coming home at odd hours of the night. Drunk. Singing. Singing a tune that once got stuck in my head forcing me to look it up only to find it was a Hilary Duff song which made me want to invent the “do-it-yourself-home-lobotomy” to remove even the memory of the memory from my mind. But, yeah, I can usually tune it all out.

The other night, the vestibule show was – for the first time – quite interesting.

I heard the muffled sound of voices – male voice outside the door; female tenant – talking over the building intercom. Then the vibrating, buzzing sound of the wires connected to the door releasing the lock to let the guest in.

The sound of the guy walking through the first door.

The buzzing sound stopped which meant one thing – this guy was now stuck between the two doors, unable to get through the second door to the apartment they were visiting.

Loud sigh.

Front door opening and closing. Muffled sound of the intercom again. Vibrating buzzing sound. Front door opens and closes. Buzzing sound stops. Louder sigh. Front door opens and then slams.

Now I’m really paying attention.

I hear the guy outside loudly speak into the intercom, “hey, you know there are two doors, right? So you have to hold the button down longer so that I can get through both doors. Can you do that?”

Indistinct response on the intercom… But then, the buzzing sound again, releasing the locks on both doors. The front door opens. Buzzing immediately stops.

The guy in the vestibule lost it. Just completely let go, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK! What the FUCK?????!!!!!!!!”

I could hear him doing what sounded like a calming, breathing exercise in the vestibule. Then a slapping sound, like he had thrown his hands up in exasperation and, lowering his arms, crashed his open palms down against his thighs. The front door opened and closed again, and…

Nothing.

He left. He actually left!

No one can know what was going on inside his head but I’d hazard a guess that he was so annoyed by the ineptitude of my neighbor that he just gave up! Imagine being this guy. You woke up that day anxious but excited for a first date. When the evening finally rolled around, you showered, shaved, splashed on cologne, ironed a dress shirt, got cash from the ATM, took a subway to this woman’s place, rang the bell and….

My face was frozen in a wide eyed, hand over open mouth, “oh shit” expression for who knows how long… the trance broken only by that elusive second door opening and slamming and a woman exclaiming, “seriously?!”

And – you just can’t make this up – she got stuck in the vestibule, locked out of that second door. I guess I could have done it earlier, but decided to mercifully push the button on my intercom and let her through.

One of few men in the city worth dating...

... according to him, that is.

I didn't date this guy, I don't even know him. But I couldn't resist posting this:

Voicemail message from a self proclaimed "catch."

There were a number of red flags on THIS message but my favorites:

• I get hit on 6-7 times a day.
• I write movie scripts.
• I’m Greek.
• I don’t date timid woman.
• I’m good in bed.
• I give ultimatums but don’t play games.
• There’s nothing wrong with me.
  
• I'm a very successful professional.
  
• I’m one of the greatest catches in the city.
• I believe “passive aggressive” behavior is a personality disorder.
• "Call me when you have the courage."

Schnitzel

An oldie but goodie…

Several years ago, I became involved in the Orthodox Jewish community. But given that I was 25 years old (kinda old to be single in this world) and didn't grow up observant, I was confronted with several social stigmas about "people like me" when I started dating.

I politely turned down the majority of suitor suggestions (40-something widowers, unemployed men that lived with parents, etc) until one matchmaker told me that I was being "difficult," that I should really try this one guy - Schnitzel... I decided to go for it.

The plan was to get coffee while I was in town. Schnitzel was 30-something, wore a full suit (seriously, with a matching vest), bald, cross eyed, short, stocky. Schnitzel wasn't able to "drive at night" (because of a vision problem) and picked me up with a Brooklyn car service. We went for "coffee" at Schnitzel's "favorite SUSHI bar" which, incidentally, did not serve coffee. He ordered chicken teriyaki, I ordered soup (I had already eaten... thinking that we were just getting coffee).

The conversation was OK until he started asking what I had thus far learned about Jewish laws regarding marital relations. Bearing in mind that this is a man that grew up Orthodox, is 30-something, and that Schnitzel is not only a virgin but has never even touched a woman (consistent with the expectations of the community), I was mortified that he wanted to talk about this subject in a public place, on a first date. Think I zoned out for a moment...

Then I heard him say, "...according to Jewish law, a man can have his wife anyway he likes..." – picks up a piece of chicken - "...kinda like chicken! BBQ'd, baked, filleted..." Schnitzel flashed me what was supposed to be a seductive smirk. But it just came off really creepy in the context my visualizing this man naked, in my bedroom, holding a filleting knife and BBQ sauce, waiting to attack me. In my moment of panicked silence, Schnitzel bought me one of the roses from a vendor in the restaurant, smashed it against his nose, closed his eyes and gave the bud a dramatic sniff before handing it to me.

An eternity passed before the check came.... We walked to the car service pick-up, drove back to my friend's house, and Schnitzel asked when I was leaving town tomorrow and if I have time to get brunch. "Early. I won't have time."

The matchmaker calls 30 min later to tell me this guy is in love! Schnitzel can't wait to go out again; can't I delay my trip back? I tell her what happened. She says, "well, Schnitzel was just trying to relate to you knowing that you grew up secular and are probably preoccupied with that kind of sex talk... You shouldn't be picky, what with your age and growing up outside the community..."

Last call I ever took from her. And a few years later, I finally left the community entirely.

Right-Around-the-Corner

On a quarterly basis, I go through an intense "I’m-just-going-to-make-the-first-move-and-email-the-male-online-profiles-I’m-interested-in" phase. In February 2009, I carved out a chunk of time to do just that and emailed a few guys that looked interesting.

That was the first time I ever corresponded with Right-Around-the-Corner. I liked his profile. Really liked it. He seemed thoughtful and deliberate in his choice of words – indeed, he’s a writer for a TV comedy show that I don’t actually watch – and had that tall, gangly introvert look that makes me swoon. No misspelled words in this profile. And, even better, he made a few humorous references that made me Laugh Out Loud. So, I dropped him a note.

Through the intrusive-bordering-on-stalker tech features of most online dating sites, I knew two things right away –
1) Right-Around-the-Corner had immediately opened my email upon receipt and
2) Right-Around-the-Corner either didn’t look at my profile or, more likely, blocks people from seeing whether or not he looks at their profile.

And, within a week, I knew a third thing – 3) Right-Around-the-Corner was rude. He never wrote back.

In May 2009, I get an email from Right-Around-the-Corner. Not a response to my message from months before but a new message entirely. He just jogged by a woman that looked like me but was on the phone so he didn’t say anything. But he makes a point of telling me that not only did he just, maybe, almost see me but that he also “turned to look back several times.”

Now I know a fourth thing – 4) Right-Around-the-Corner’s socially awkward.

Why tell me that you just saw me? I don’t want to know that you’re NOW interested because you saw me looking particularly hot on the street one day but weren’t intrigued enough by my profile and bold, first email to do me the courtesy of responding.

But, knowing that this guy is now interested having seen me in person is a turn-on.

Perhaps he doesn't appreciate my online profile, but he likes what he sees on the street. And while that makes me feel like a cheap hooker, it also makes me feel like a cheap hooker that’s just landed a John and that’s pretty fucking special.

After a couple awkward exchanges – and now knowing that Right-Around-the-Corner lives around the corner from me – we decide to meet. Hey, why not?

I’m not going to talk about the dates that we actually went on because it's "while not on a date Right-Around-the-Corner" that provides the most fodder in the context of GIMOTI (Guys I Met on the Internet).

Quite possibly the most awkward experience I've ever had – I ran into Right-Around-the-Corner on the subway after an awkward date a few days prior. We were on the same car. I had grabbed a seat and immediately busied myself with a book as I normally do on the train. I look up and see Right-Around-the-Corner standing 3 feet away from me. He looked like he was... absorbed in thought? I don’t know. I just know that he was at a vantage point where he would clearly have seen me before I would have seen him and he hadn’t said anything.

I said something. “Hello,” I think. And then rambled because I was inexplicably more uncomfortable in that moment than I can remember being with another person in recent memory.

Even though I obsessed on the awkwardness of that subway ride for hours wondering what the fuck just happened, we went out again… and in spite of myself, I had a nice time.

So, I invited him out again and Right-Around-the-Corner responded by telling me that he just wasn’t feeling it and that given the situation – i.e., that we went out via an online dating site with the intention of a romantic relationship (true, that is the intention of an online dating site) – the bar was higher for a romance to take off. And, I guess I missed that bar. It would be the first, ba dum dum…

But Right-Around-the-Corner can’t just say, “I’m not feeling it, good luck to you.” No. Right-Around-the-Corner makes a special point of telling me that I’m awesome and that he’d like to continue to hang out and see where things go…

While I might be quirky and obsessive, I am quite literal about most things. If you tell me you’d like to hang out, I think you’d like to hang out. And if I want to hang out with you, I’ll ask you to hang out.

I asked Right-Around-the-Corner to hang out. Once. Twice. Three times. He was always busy. By the third time, I decided to get out of the “invite Right-Around-the-Corner to hang out business” and decided to just let him make a plan if he was so inclined.

And, he was inclined… to speculate about plans. Several times he invited me to be in touch about hanging out. For a while after things had fizzled. He was even specific about what hanging out could mean – dining, an exhibit, an improv show…

And on at least one occasion after telling me he wasn’t feeling the sting of Cupid’s arrow in his ass, he walked by me sitting in front of my apartment on the street without my noticing him. I know this because he, again, emailed to tell me he had just seen me. Not within a couple hours of it happening like the first time, but a couple days after it had happened. He described what I was wearing in detail. Explained that he had hung back a little to catch my attention.

But, just like the first time this happened, I was on the phone and he didn’t want to interrupt. And unlike the first time, feeling like a cheap hooker sucked.

Jury's still out, but...

If you're not following the latest on Ashley Dupre (the high priced hooker that took down Eliot Spitzer), you might have missed her accusation that NYC women are essentially all whores that are looking for a rich sugar daddy.

Oh please.

But then, a week later, I went out on a second date with a guy that might have taken this note from Ashley too seriously.

He chose the restaurant (the *expensive* restaurant), invited me to go there, made the reservation. He proposed appetizers, sharing a bottle of wine, pricey entrees. And when the check came, he opened the little pleather holder, laid it on the table in between us both, counted out about 1/2 of the bill in cash from his wallet and... passed it to me.

OK. I'm down for going Dutch. But that is not typical of dates I have been on. In fact, the more common scenario is an awkward moment of me fumbling for my wallet as my date picks up the bill and tells me that "this is on me."

It's always awkward and uncomfortable and I end up feeling like an alien from another planet that doesn't understand the dating rituals of human beings. So, in the last year, I've tried to correct that by paying for the dates that I propose. And why not? I make a decent living. I'm not on these dates for a free meal or movie...

But riddle me this: the one common denominator with several of the guys that I have gone out with recently, where the interest from either of us just sort of fizzled, has been that I paid for the last (or almost last) date that we went on. Rationally speaking, I sensed things weren't going to work out with all these guys prior to inviting them out and paying for the date... and that I invited them out to "give it the old college try" so the data is kinda skewed.

I'm not sure what to think about "Jury's still out." And, bigger picture, whether there is another hidden dating secret in the question of "who pays." A mystery, indeed. But in the meantime, I think I might go out again with this guy... and I'll remember to bring cash.

Theorem

There is a formula that I believe holds the answer to meeting your match online:



I don’t know the exact variables, but I’m absolutely certain that finding them unlocks a door to a parallel universe. And overcoming the agonizing frustration presented by this formula would be spectacular and bizarre.

It’s remarkable, but I find myself in the EXACT SAME situation as a month ago where I have just met someone online (through MeetUp! I know, it’s a crazy story for another time…), we did the 1+ hour phone call, and because I will be going out of town, we won’t be able to meet in person within the next 5 days.

Yeah, that first date is going to suck, right?

Because now I’m totally attracted to your charm, your wit, your sense of humor… And I haven’t seen you in person yet, which means that there is A LOT riding on you not being a zillion shades of physically repellent, only a handful of which I have discovered thus far:

-Short;
-a rail;
-pear shaped with JUNK in the TRUNK (and under the hood);
-cross eyed;
-wears suspenders and a bowtie;
-blinks too much;
-really sweaty;
-missing teeth;
-laughs like a 6th grade GIRL;
-gnarled teeth;
-unibrow;
-wildly gesticulates; and so many more, I don’t think it’s a good idea to take this trip down Memory Lane between Zoloft® refills.

But there is hope.

This time, I will only be gone for a week, not two. This time, I know what will be waiting for me on my trip to CA. And, it’s like I get a shot to do the whole thing over again in a condensed timeline which all combines to make me hopeful that I have new variables to test that might unlock that door…

Dammit, I just over-expected it again.

A-Kizzle

I met A-Kizzle during a recent 3 week love affair with Bikram Yoga (1.5 hours of yoga in a room heated to over 100 degrees)… the affair is over and I don’t think I’ll ever enter the torture chamber (AKA classroom) so willingly again.

A-Kizzle is an attorney. From California, like me! But he’s not really from California, he’s from Bakersfield. And, if you’re not from California or are otherwise confused, Bakersfield’s probably got more in common with a place like Kansas City, MO than with any place you’d think of when someone says “I’m from California.”

Knowing that I’m from California, and knowing that I’ve lived in the cool parts like Santa Cruz and Los Angeles (which isn’t so much cool as it is iconic), A-Kizzle cautions me to not hold the fact that he’s from Bakersfield “against him.” Uh, OK. I don’t really care… but if it makes A-Kizzle feel better…

We make a date to meet for brunch in Soho.

Surprise, surprise, A-Kizzle does not look like his picture. And by that, I mean A-Kizzle is shorter, wider, and not currently in whatever magical lighting made his face NOT look like he likes tuna salad.

Say what?

It’s a distinct look that is as germane to me as it is difficult to explain to others. Famous people that have the look include Jerry Seinfeld. I don’t know what it is about Seinfeld but if we were at a deli about to order lunch, I’d bet the farm he would order a tuna salad sandwich. I don’t know why, I just would.

Immediately after our brunch, inspired by my feedback, A-Kizzle is going to go to his first ever Bikram Yoga class. Seriously. So, he explains that he’s got to find something on the menu that is “relatively healthy, full of carbs, and quickly digestible because you definitely don’t want some heavy meal in your stomach” before this class.

He didn’t order a tuna salad sandwich. It wasn’t on the menu so I maintain that he didn’t have the choice… Instead, sticking to the meal requirements he set himself, A-Kizzle ordered a yogurt/fruit/granola concoction and a side of sausage. No, two sides of sausage because there are only two links in each side order. I almost involuntarily gagged.

Recovering, I chose an omelette and coffee before handing my menu to the waitress and looking back at A-Kizzle who is staring at my chest with his mouth agape. I look down. Shit. The button struggling to stay closed across my breasts has lost its fight and my shirt is wide open in the exact wrong/ right spot. I’m wearing a camisole underneath, it’s still PG-rated… but I jokingly say something lame like, “wow, sorry about that… button down shirts aren’t always my friend!” as A-Kizzle forces his eyes back to my face…

A-Kizzle is an attorney. But his true calling is in entertainment. He’s 38 years old and only recently got his JD after “not being discovered” up until 5 years ago when he decided to enter law school.

In what part of the entertainment industry would A-Kizzle excel? You name it! Acting, editing, directing, writing, producing, marketing… Hollywood is kicking itself every second that passes without A-Kizzle. He’s got all kinds of ideas in the works, it’s only a matter of time.

But while Hollywood is missing its undiscovered pro, there’s plenty of (*all quotes here are things he actually said; references he actually used*) “legal shit” that “monkeys can do” that pays “bank” so that A-Kizzle will never be “ass out.”

Who would have thought a gangsta from Bakersfield would slam like that, yo?

As it turns out, the “girlie breakfast” A-Kizzle ordered isn’t quite what he expected and he’s PISSED at the waitress for leading him to believe that the yogurt option would be a meal. And he tells her. Loudly. Dramatically. Humorously (to him). Convincingly. We get a new waitress. And, scene!

I ate my entire omelette, drank maybe 8 cups of coffee. I don’t think I spoke at all for about 30 minutes which is an achievement, to be sure. A FEAT. Then, noting my silence, A-Kizzle fires off a slew of questions – what do your parents do? How many siblings do you have? What do you currently do for a living? Is your job lucrative (paraphrasing on that last one because he used some slang word I needed him to define. I don’t remember the word but it means “lucrative”)? Hopped up on caffeine, I shoot back my quick answers like an auctioneer.

I can see my subway entrance across the street and I’ve never wanted to get on the 2 train more. A-Kizzle asked me if I could recommend a “good beverage with electrolytes for Bikram?” No. “Think I should get Gatorade?” I don’t know. “What do you normally drink”? Water. “Ugh, not TAP WATER”? Yes, distilled tap water. “Ugh, how can you drink that shit”? It’s perfectly fine; we live in the fucking United States and have pretty decent water treatment systems. “Why are you so defensive”? Why are YOU forcing ME to defend WATER?

Our new waitress, two busboys, and our old waitress - who is now huddled with the other staff in this mostly empty restaurant - are all waiting for A-Kizzle to put his fork down, signaling that he is finished… Eons pass before that finally, thankfully happens and our new waitress swoops in with the check.

A-Kizzle immediately grabs the check when it hits the table. I appreciate that…

… but then he says, “’cuz this isn’t a non-profit salary kind of place.” I don’t appreciate that. Fuck you, A-Kizzle. You might just make it into a movie… as the guy that never recovered from me giving him a roundhouse kick to the face.

He “enjoyed our date” and wanted to go out again… umm, no.

7-Flag

We met at a vegetarian cafe for coffee/tea at 7pm on a FRIDAY because he doesn’t drink as of two months ago (I’m told to “ask later”). Red flag: 1.

At first, I don’t recognize 7-Flag AT ALL from his online profile picture but there’s only one guy sitting alone at the cafe that maybe, sort of looks like him. But if that’s 7-Flag, I’m a little pissed that he’s already ordered and is halfway through a coffee.

It’s 7-Flag.

He spots me, comes over, and gives me the weakest handshake ever. EVER. Like shaking hands with J-E-L-L-O.

Buys me an iced coffee and we then go back to sit down at a dirty table (you’ll remember this part later, as I have, and be a little confused). Dirty. Huge crumbs of a previously consumed meal at the table that are so large, you can narrow down possible items on the menu that would identify what they were when once whole.

He grew up as an Orthodox Jew – I’m 100% positive that I didn’t know that detail prior to that moment – and has now spent 11 years non-observant.

7-Flag’s “not bitter,” but he kind of is. Really is. He hates “these self-righteous rabbis.” Yeah, Earth to 7-Flag: “You’re fucking bitter!” Seriously, he proclaimed his lack of bitter-ness several times but, then again, he also remarked “the Nazi’s missed a few.” Red flag: 2 and 3

In spite of myself, I really like his eyes.

I disclose that I spent 8 years as an Orthodox Jew and eventually left because I couldn’t stand the racism and political conservatism of the majority of the people I encountered; I felt isolated with only a handful of the billion people I met in the community being people I’d want to hang out with; I couldn’t stand the sexually repressive culture that has the horrible side effect of making 30- 40- something year old men feel perfectly entitled to talk about a phony sexual escapade at a dinner party on SHABBAT with complete strangers. But I’m not bitter. I’m really not. Really.

He's got a professional day job that requires a graduate degree. He's also in a band. Plays guitar. Sings. That’s hot.

It’s a Jewish band that mostly plays weddings. Orthodox Jewish weddings. Less hot.

And, he’s got “adult onset OCD.” That’s rare. You usually are diagnosed with OCD in your teens or 20s but 7-Flag is 40. And as 7-Flag explains, “when you get it as late as I did, it’s most likely the result of some head trauma.” He had such trauma. A couple years ago, he walked into a glass window at a kosher pizza place and later had a huge bump on his head. Would have sued the place, too, but the head trauma has caused him to forget important details about the incident that would be necessary to his case. Like, the date it happened. He says he has “witnesses” but I guess they don’t remember that detail, either. I don’t know, I didn’t want to pursue it.

OK, his eyes are not only a nice shade of green, they also sparkle. And have a lovely shape.

So, how did he find out about the OCD? He had an episode. Red flag number 4.

7-Flag was at work and a colleague touched his keyboard – note, he struggled to find the word “keyboard” and kept doing that annoying thing bad actors do when they’re trying to remember something by snapping their fingers in a circular motion while looking up; could be the head trauma – and it made him really antsy. He went downstairs for air then came back, got really close to the this other guy’s head and said, “if you ever touch my keyboard again, I’ll fucking kill you.” Red flag number 5, 6, and 7. And, I think I almost wet myself.

This prompts a six month stint where he cannot leave his home. Except, that is, to go to therapy, which is required to get the prescription for the “meds.”

But going to the shrink means taking the F train. And to do that, he must wear two pairs of gloves and even then, can’t bear to touch anything. That means, that when on the train, 7-Flag plants his feet – spread about 2 feet apart – solidly on the floor and stands with his arms outstretched for balance.

Now, he’s OK.

He’s on meds but not drinking. Maybe alcohol mixes poorly with the meds? I’m too anxious to ask and not really thinking clearly because I’m imagining 7-Flag on the F train in the stance he described. Naked.

He wants to have dinner this week! And my first instinct is, “eh, it’s just dinner”… I’m so troubled by this reflex…