I have never been a big fan of dating, on or off-line. On-line dating is particularly stressful. It’s that initial pressure of trying to decide whether you want to date this person or that person (and when you have to decide between the guy whose only posted pictures of himself where his ex-girlfriend has been cropped out or the guy who still lives with his mother, it’s kind of a toss-up). It’s going out on a ‘blind’ date, and realizing that you are in for a few hours of pure boredom or worse, disaster…
This blog was started in part because of dates like that. Soon after I signed up for my two-month trial of internet dating, I quickly realized that most of the guys on there are either ugly or boring (or both), and that the gems are far and few between. I read through profile after profile (with tag names like “2hot2trot” or “BelieveTheHypeSF75” or "DontchaWishYourBFwuzHOTlikeME”)… they all started the same way “Hmmm…where to start…I’m an easy going guy…” Most of them said the same thing about “loving fine dining, family, and the outdoors.” Some of them even went so far as to say they were “a good blend of east and west coast, now in love with SF,” blah blah blah…
I’d initially signed up for this on-line service to entertain myself after my back surgery, but after about a week, the thought of gouging both my eyes out and then referring myself to an ophthalmologist for another surgery seemed more appealing than looking at another one of those profiles. Or maybe I’d just become a nun…well, a Jewish nun (do they even exist?)…ok, maybe an open-minded nun (you know, the kind who still date and have sex)…
Half-distracted by the thought of having sex in a nun’s habit, I did one last run-through of a few more profiles before calling it a night on-line. That’s when I stumbled upon Mr. Points… a pretty good looking fella, with no skanky photo cropping and the following hook for an opening line:
“This dating thing is really simple if you break it down.”
WOW! I thought to myself, what has this guy figured out about dating that I hadn’t? Maybe I could learn something from him! I trembled with anticipation as I opened the rest of his profile...
"I firmly believe it's possible to objectively quantify who's "right" for me. This may save us alot of time and awkward banter in a small coffee shop staring at a stale scone discussing where we grew up. So, start with 0 pts, if you are... Objectively good looking, add 15 pts. Subjectively good looking based on your personality, add 6 pts. Of the belief that you are good looking based only on your parents' comments, subtract 10 pts. Objectively funny, add 15 pts.”
OK, + 30 points later, I was not only doing great on his little clever test, but I was laughing so hard that I thought I was going to pop my surgical wound open. So I braced myself and continued reading...
"Mention in your profile that you are as comfortable in heels as in running shoes (or some variant of that), subtract 5 pts. Holding a bachelor's degree, add 6 pts. Holding a master's degree, add 10 pts. Are a doctor, add 18 pts. Are an attorney, subtract 5 pts. Able to go to a party where you know nobody and have more fun than if you did, add 4 points. Participate in athletics, add 9 points. Of the belief that sushi transcends the realm of food, add 3 pts. Able to find the humor in (or make humorous) the pedestrian situations, add 10 points.”
OOOH, + 80 points for me already. I was SO on my way to having a sushi dinner with this guy...
"Prone to complaining about most situations, subtract 15 pts.”
Oops, I guess do complain a bit. But not a ton. Just a little. Well, maybe a medium amount. So I made an administrative decision and subtracted 7.5 points…
”A person who has ever cheated on a boyfriend/fiancee, subtract 20 pts per individual. A person who has been cheated on and taken him back, subtract 5 pts for the first incident, subtract 20 pts for the second incident, and subtract 50 pts for each additional incident. A person who fills up her gas tank more often than shaves her legs, subtract 5 pts. If you have smoked *even once* in the past 5 years, take the cube root of your score. If you don't know what a cube root is or cannot estimate it to 1 decimal place, subtract another 15 pts. If you prefer the red states to the blue, subtract 3 points. If you think this refers to the Civil War, subtract 15 pts.”
Well, maybe I kissed a boy while dating somebody when I was 20 and smoked a few cigarettes about 2 years ago, but that doesn’t really count, does it?
”If you scored a 68, I will marry you tonight (or tomorrow night if you’re reading this on a Friday. And if you’re not sure why that is, go ahead and subtract another 10 points). 60-67: let’s go ahead and cancel our on-line memberships and make plans. 50-59: let’s write a few emails and see. Less than 49: it’s probably not meant to be with me. It’s not you, it’s me…”
YES, my score was 72.5 and the only reason I didn’t go to buy myself a wedding dress was because my surgical wound was on the verge of bursting open and I didn’t want to risk having another surgery. That’s the first time in my life I scored 106% on a test. I gave myself an A+ (of course) and emailed Mr. Points immediately. My dislike of dating suddenly seemed insignificant in comparison to the prospect of having good sushi while laughing my ass (or should I say, my surgical wound) off. Plus, I was an “A” student already and I hadn’t even started the "semester"…
After a few dates and a lot of side splitting (not wound splitting) laughs, Mr. Points did not seem to be that into me. I guess he wasn’t as enchanted with me and my performance on his little test as I was. Turns out I was too ‘high maintenance’ for him, a criteria he failed to include but if he had, it might have sounded like this:
“Once we meet, I’ll be the judge of your maintenance index. If you are low maintenance index, add 15 points. If you are medium maintenance index, subtract 10 points. If you are high maintenance index, subtract enough points so that your total number is less than 49… If you don’t know your maintenance index or what ‘index’ is, your self-awareness needs some improvement. Write back after you’ve had a few years of therapy.”
So, on our last ‘date’ he mumbled something to the extent of wanting to be friends and then politely put in me in a taxi.
I suppose what it all comes down to is that what he really wanted to say at the conclusion of our last date was: “It’s not me, its YOU!”
Wait, I thought I was supposed to be the one to say that?!! But oh well… at least I got a few points left. They do roll over, right??
-- Innigma
(Special thanks to Mr. Points who graciously agreed to let me use his on-line profile for the contents of this story. He, of course, immediately suggested that such a gesture was worth + 20 points. Who is being high maintenance now?! )
Friday, March 30, 2007
Friday, March 9, 2007
Brown Man VS Catwoman
It should be known that LCG resorted to blackmail (with pictures of my foot long penis) to elicit my contribution to this dating blog. She hits below the belt, that one. (Or in my case, way below the belt.)
That being said, here is one of the many dating chronicles from this brown man…
I grew up with five sisters. So, needless to say, I had girls figured out by the time high school was through. Though, sadly, that didn’t mean I got mad action. At least not in high school. By the time I hit college though, I quickly recognized the advantages I had over my fellow man in the dating department. With a great sense of humor and a thorough understanding of the female psyche, I had no problem hooking up. In no time at all, I had more than enough sexual experiences to make up for the ones I didn’t have in high school. What I didn’t learn from my pubescent years is that sex makes some girls psycho, particularly the crazy sexy freaky ones, and especially if you’re good at it. Since I was a late bloomer, I didn’t learn until a bit later in the game this simple equation: Downright freaky = psycho. Now, I don’t know if there is a dormant “I’m going to slash your tires and throw a brick through your car window” stalker gene in the chromosomes of some women. But if there is, it’s somehow sexually triggered. I know that much, thanks to Tara.
I met Tara in an acting class. A little pale, but absolutely gorgeous. She had these big, heaving…crystal blue eyes that were very captivating and she was so full of energy. Sexual energy. I remember that she loved cats and she always had a curious Eau D’feline smell about her. Since she was extremely hot, I figured it was something I was willing to ignore my olfactory red flag. After a few days we’d had our first date and I had given her a ride home. Before the car even came to a complete stop, we were going at in the driveway.
As we were making out, I noticed that she was a little more forceful and assertive than most girls as she began nibbling at my lips and biting my neck. At first I thought it was a little weird, but I started to really get into it. In a flash she pounced on me and had her hands under my shirt and was unbuckling my belt. The kissing and petting got heavier and we desperately needed a change of venue. Still lip-locked and undressing we crashed inside the house as she guided me towards her bedroom. From the few glances I stole down the dark hallway to her room, the house seemed like any normal place of residence, only with the cat smell a little more poignant than before. (I was really too busy unhooking her bra and stepping out of my jeans to notice much else.) Before I knew it she threw me on the bed and sprang on top of me kissing me harder and tracing her nails down the ridges of my six-pack. I could take no more. In one swift motion, I had switched positions and was on top of her. Her hands were now on my back and her scratches became deeper and more serious as she moaned. I felt like a damn scratching post, but I was still too enthralled to care. When her clawing hands reached my sides I winced at the initial onset of sharp pain. She flashed a mischievous grin upon my reaction and seemed to become even more excited.
Things were going relatively well, until she started writhing around and purring. Yep. She started purring. To make matters worse, we’d apparently left the door open and were performing for an entire feline audience. Okay, now this is fucking weird. For some reason I couldn’t stop what I was doing, it just didn’t feel right. But the fact of the matter was that I was getting jacked up by wolverine, my back was really starting to burn, and six pairs of eyes were watching my every move. Now I like an occasional back scratching at the peak of arousal just as much as the next guy, but there is no earthly reason to leave a man’s back looking like he’d just been slave whipped. I could have sworn I was bleeding and more cats kept making their way into the room. A younger cat slyly leapt on the corner of the bed and stared right into my eyes while another laid right next to Tara and started to lick himself. She didn’t even flinch. That’s enough! Cat porn is where I totally draw the line.
Without a word, I dismounted, hurriedly gathered my clothes, and ran out of the room trying not to make eye contact with any animals for fear of being ambushed. I paused in the living room long enough to put my jeans on, and noticed a few more cats lying around disinterested in my presence (I must not have been the first). I felt like I was in a freakish Stephen King movie or something. As I bolted out of the kitchen and past the garage I spotted 8 or 9 litter boxes and countless bags of cat food. That explains the Eau D’feline! I practically dove in my car head first and peeled out like I was being chased by a lion. I had to lean forward, hunching over the steering wheel the whole way home to keep the chair from exacerbating my fresh wounds.
The next day I dropped my drama class. And that’s how my acting career came to a back lacerating end.
- Brown Man
That being said, here is one of the many dating chronicles from this brown man…
I grew up with five sisters. So, needless to say, I had girls figured out by the time high school was through. Though, sadly, that didn’t mean I got mad action. At least not in high school. By the time I hit college though, I quickly recognized the advantages I had over my fellow man in the dating department. With a great sense of humor and a thorough understanding of the female psyche, I had no problem hooking up. In no time at all, I had more than enough sexual experiences to make up for the ones I didn’t have in high school. What I didn’t learn from my pubescent years is that sex makes some girls psycho, particularly the crazy sexy freaky ones, and especially if you’re good at it. Since I was a late bloomer, I didn’t learn until a bit later in the game this simple equation: Downright freaky = psycho. Now, I don’t know if there is a dormant “I’m going to slash your tires and throw a brick through your car window” stalker gene in the chromosomes of some women. But if there is, it’s somehow sexually triggered. I know that much, thanks to Tara.
I met Tara in an acting class. A little pale, but absolutely gorgeous. She had these big, heaving…crystal blue eyes that were very captivating and she was so full of energy. Sexual energy. I remember that she loved cats and she always had a curious Eau D’feline smell about her. Since she was extremely hot, I figured it was something I was willing to ignore my olfactory red flag. After a few days we’d had our first date and I had given her a ride home. Before the car even came to a complete stop, we were going at in the driveway.
As we were making out, I noticed that she was a little more forceful and assertive than most girls as she began nibbling at my lips and biting my neck. At first I thought it was a little weird, but I started to really get into it. In a flash she pounced on me and had her hands under my shirt and was unbuckling my belt. The kissing and petting got heavier and we desperately needed a change of venue. Still lip-locked and undressing we crashed inside the house as she guided me towards her bedroom. From the few glances I stole down the dark hallway to her room, the house seemed like any normal place of residence, only with the cat smell a little more poignant than before. (I was really too busy unhooking her bra and stepping out of my jeans to notice much else.) Before I knew it she threw me on the bed and sprang on top of me kissing me harder and tracing her nails down the ridges of my six-pack. I could take no more. In one swift motion, I had switched positions and was on top of her. Her hands were now on my back and her scratches became deeper and more serious as she moaned. I felt like a damn scratching post, but I was still too enthralled to care. When her clawing hands reached my sides I winced at the initial onset of sharp pain. She flashed a mischievous grin upon my reaction and seemed to become even more excited.
Things were going relatively well, until she started writhing around and purring. Yep. She started purring. To make matters worse, we’d apparently left the door open and were performing for an entire feline audience. Okay, now this is fucking weird. For some reason I couldn’t stop what I was doing, it just didn’t feel right. But the fact of the matter was that I was getting jacked up by wolverine, my back was really starting to burn, and six pairs of eyes were watching my every move. Now I like an occasional back scratching at the peak of arousal just as much as the next guy, but there is no earthly reason to leave a man’s back looking like he’d just been slave whipped. I could have sworn I was bleeding and more cats kept making their way into the room. A younger cat slyly leapt on the corner of the bed and stared right into my eyes while another laid right next to Tara and started to lick himself. She didn’t even flinch. That’s enough! Cat porn is where I totally draw the line.
Without a word, I dismounted, hurriedly gathered my clothes, and ran out of the room trying not to make eye contact with any animals for fear of being ambushed. I paused in the living room long enough to put my jeans on, and noticed a few more cats lying around disinterested in my presence (I must not have been the first). I felt like I was in a freakish Stephen King movie or something. As I bolted out of the kitchen and past the garage I spotted 8 or 9 litter boxes and countless bags of cat food. That explains the Eau D’feline! I practically dove in my car head first and peeled out like I was being chased by a lion. I had to lean forward, hunching over the steering wheel the whole way home to keep the chair from exacerbating my fresh wounds.
The next day I dropped my drama class. And that’s how my acting career came to a back lacerating end.
- Brown Man
Monday, March 5, 2007
With all due respect to your Daddy....
I had been flirting online with this attractive looking woman, The Fisherwoman, for a week when I asked her to have a drink with me in midtown Manhattan. We had agreed to meet at 6:30 pm. An hour before the meeting time, she called me and asked me to meet instead at her upper east side place since she had been working at home all day. I was a bit startled, since one usually doesn't receive this invite before ever meeting, but agreed. Perhaps I'd get lucky on the first date?
Her place was up in the 70's somewhere at 3rd Ave and it was swanky. But as soon as I entered her apartment, I knew something was terribly off. Shit was strewn everywhere. Papers, animal cages that hadn't been cleaned, clothes… I'd never seen a woman's place look so unruly. Immediately my guard was up. The Fisherwoman greeted me with a kiss on the side of the cheek and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I told her I didn't. A minute later, she asked me again. Again I told her I was fine. Two minutes later, she asked me again. "No, really, I'm good", I told her.
I sat down while she made a cocktail and was checking out one of her many books on her dining room table when she suddenly spurted out, "ME ME ME ME ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!" Oh shit, I thought to myself. What have I gotten myself into?!
She sat down and started telling me about her business, which is running the most exclusive Jewish matchmaking service in the city, for which she charges several, sometimes tens of thousands of dollars for. Hmm, I think to myself, and she's single. I wonder why…
As I mused in that thought she divulged that she sometimes records her dates since she's writing a book on the topic.
“Oh really? Are you taping us right now?”
She said that she wasn't and only tapes dates if she gets permission. "Would you like to hear some material?" she asked. "Sure" I replied.
She whipped out a little tape recorder and pressed play. While I listened to what must have amounted to the most contrived date of all time anywhere she suddenly blurted out, "Do you know what really turns me on?”
"No"...I replied, very curious to see where this was going.
"Dressing up" she said. "Let me show you".
So I waited at the table for a few minutes while The Fisherwoman changed. I couldn't believe it…she came out in a full on sexy French maid outfit and sat on my lap. Hey, I was finally starting to have a good time. She may have been crazy, but this was going to be a good ride! Next came the cop out fit, and she wanted to handcuff me. I refused playfully yet politely. Then came the cheerleader... Aw yeah, this WAS getting good!
While she performed a few cheerleader maneuvers for me, she again blurted out, "Do you know what also turns me on?” On my heels, I couldn't guess.
"Porn,.." as she dashed for the DVD player and stuck one in. "Come here, I think you're cute!”
There comes a point, on any date in which porn is used as a seduction tool, where every guy relinquishes brain power to his second head, and I’d been playing pretty hard to get up until that point. So, it was at this point that I obliged her and sat down on the couch next to her. We began to make out and things were getting pretty heated when, as was her style, she stopped suddenly.
She looked at me earnestly and, in a very serious tone said, "I really want to get married and have children.”
My second head's chokehold on my normal brain was immediately broken. I looked at the clock and said, "Hey it's getting late, I really need to get going.”
I made a beeline to the door. Only to hear her scream…
"My daddy's really wealthy, HE'LL BUY YOU THE RING! YOU'LL SEE YOU'LL BE HAPPY!”
…just before the door slammed.
- Johnny Pesce
Her place was up in the 70's somewhere at 3rd Ave and it was swanky. But as soon as I entered her apartment, I knew something was terribly off. Shit was strewn everywhere. Papers, animal cages that hadn't been cleaned, clothes… I'd never seen a woman's place look so unruly. Immediately my guard was up. The Fisherwoman greeted me with a kiss on the side of the cheek and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I told her I didn't. A minute later, she asked me again. Again I told her I was fine. Two minutes later, she asked me again. "No, really, I'm good", I told her.
I sat down while she made a cocktail and was checking out one of her many books on her dining room table when she suddenly spurted out, "ME ME ME ME ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!" Oh shit, I thought to myself. What have I gotten myself into?!
She sat down and started telling me about her business, which is running the most exclusive Jewish matchmaking service in the city, for which she charges several, sometimes tens of thousands of dollars for. Hmm, I think to myself, and she's single. I wonder why…
As I mused in that thought she divulged that she sometimes records her dates since she's writing a book on the topic.
“Oh really? Are you taping us right now?”
She said that she wasn't and only tapes dates if she gets permission. "Would you like to hear some material?" she asked. "Sure" I replied.
She whipped out a little tape recorder and pressed play. While I listened to what must have amounted to the most contrived date of all time anywhere she suddenly blurted out, "Do you know what really turns me on?”
"No"...I replied, very curious to see where this was going.
"Dressing up" she said. "Let me show you".
So I waited at the table for a few minutes while The Fisherwoman changed. I couldn't believe it…she came out in a full on sexy French maid outfit and sat on my lap. Hey, I was finally starting to have a good time. She may have been crazy, but this was going to be a good ride! Next came the cop out fit, and she wanted to handcuff me. I refused playfully yet politely. Then came the cheerleader... Aw yeah, this WAS getting good!
While she performed a few cheerleader maneuvers for me, she again blurted out, "Do you know what also turns me on?” On my heels, I couldn't guess.
"Porn,.." as she dashed for the DVD player and stuck one in. "Come here, I think you're cute!”
There comes a point, on any date in which porn is used as a seduction tool, where every guy relinquishes brain power to his second head, and I’d been playing pretty hard to get up until that point. So, it was at this point that I obliged her and sat down on the couch next to her. We began to make out and things were getting pretty heated when, as was her style, she stopped suddenly.
She looked at me earnestly and, in a very serious tone said, "I really want to get married and have children.”
My second head's chokehold on my normal brain was immediately broken. I looked at the clock and said, "Hey it's getting late, I really need to get going.”
I made a beeline to the door. Only to hear her scream…
"My daddy's really wealthy, HE'LL BUY YOU THE RING! YOU'LL SEE YOU'LL BE HAPPY!”
…just before the door slammed.
- Johnny Pesce
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Top 10 Reasons NOT to be a Match-Maker for your Friends...
10. Your intention (to simply get him and her some action while they continue their search for “the one”) backfires (and leads to a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship).
9. In its off-again phase, he and she both call you, repeatedly, and make it abundantly clear how profoundly wrong you were to have EVER thought that they would be compatible. In any way. Well, except for the sex way. In which they are pretty compatible indeed…
8. Ok. So it’s on-again. Again. All things are whiskers on kittens and brown paper packages tied up with string and suddenly the hills are alive with the sound of music. And you? Your cell phone has suddenly ceased to ring. No phone calls from either him nor her…not even for a thank you. Thank you SO much for setting us up, he/she is so wonderful. Nope. None of that.
7. Oh no! Another bump in the road. The phone starts ringing again. They both expect you to fix things that are not working and stay out of the things that are. Sometimes all in the same day.
6. Uh oh. This is a particularly big bump. It’s getting a little ugly. And just when you think you might just politely duck out of the room and leave them to their own dysfunctional devices…you’re asked to stay. Stay! No, really...STAY!! And take sides. Clearly you’re on his side, he says. Um, no, you’re on her side, she says.
5. How ‘bout if you just stand right here in the middle, place your fingers snugly into your ears and sing loudly? When the dog bites...when the bee stings... Hmm…seems to be working. Wait. Did you just hear her accuse you of secretly having an agenda to steal her boyfriend? And to please stay away from said boyfriend? The boyfriend that YOU set her up with?? Oh, the lunacy!
4. Ok so…it’s officially off-again. Your phone rings off the hook. He really enjoys her, he says, but he just doesn’t want to do the whole marriage thing again. She’s got an agenda: get married, make babies, perhaps several, then maybe an apple strudel or two. Is that too much to ask? (Oh, and she’s really, really sorry about that silly little accusation in number 5 by the way). Apparently, yes, it IS too much to ask. He swears to you, by phone and online instant message, that he is simply NOT ready to commit to another marriage right now…
3. They’re engaged!?!?! [Cue the hills are alive with the sound of music.] [Again.]
2. It’s all warm woolen mittens and whiskers on kittens again. Save the date cards go out. Oh the joy! she thinks! Babies and apple strudel coming right up! Wait…what’s this right here? Hmmm…months worth of online instant messages stored in my fiance’s password unprotected email account between him and…and…and YOU! (Totally taken out of context and completely misconstrued, by the way.)
1. It’s officially off again. You stand to lose two great friends…both of whom are currently in therapy for what occurred in 2 – 10. You scuttle off thinking you might need a little therapy yourself…
-Innigma & La Cubana Gringa
9. In its off-again phase, he and she both call you, repeatedly, and make it abundantly clear how profoundly wrong you were to have EVER thought that they would be compatible. In any way. Well, except for the sex way. In which they are pretty compatible indeed…
8. Ok. So it’s on-again. Again. All things are whiskers on kittens and brown paper packages tied up with string and suddenly the hills are alive with the sound of music. And you? Your cell phone has suddenly ceased to ring. No phone calls from either him nor her…not even for a thank you. Thank you SO much for setting us up, he/she is so wonderful. Nope. None of that.
7. Oh no! Another bump in the road. The phone starts ringing again. They both expect you to fix things that are not working and stay out of the things that are. Sometimes all in the same day.
6. Uh oh. This is a particularly big bump. It’s getting a little ugly. And just when you think you might just politely duck out of the room and leave them to their own dysfunctional devices…you’re asked to stay. Stay! No, really...STAY!! And take sides. Clearly you’re on his side, he says. Um, no, you’re on her side, she says.
5. How ‘bout if you just stand right here in the middle, place your fingers snugly into your ears and sing loudly? When the dog bites...when the bee stings... Hmm…seems to be working. Wait. Did you just hear her accuse you of secretly having an agenda to steal her boyfriend? And to please stay away from said boyfriend? The boyfriend that YOU set her up with?? Oh, the lunacy!
4. Ok so…it’s officially off-again. Your phone rings off the hook. He really enjoys her, he says, but he just doesn’t want to do the whole marriage thing again. She’s got an agenda: get married, make babies, perhaps several, then maybe an apple strudel or two. Is that too much to ask? (Oh, and she’s really, really sorry about that silly little accusation in number 5 by the way). Apparently, yes, it IS too much to ask. He swears to you, by phone and online instant message, that he is simply NOT ready to commit to another marriage right now…
3. They’re engaged!?!?! [Cue the hills are alive with the sound of music.] [Again.]
2. It’s all warm woolen mittens and whiskers on kittens again. Save the date cards go out. Oh the joy! she thinks! Babies and apple strudel coming right up! Wait…what’s this right here? Hmmm…months worth of online instant messages stored in my fiance’s password unprotected email account between him and…and…and YOU! (Totally taken out of context and completely misconstrued, by the way.)
1. It’s officially off again. You stand to lose two great friends…both of whom are currently in therapy for what occurred in 2 – 10. You scuttle off thinking you might need a little therapy yourself…
-Innigma & La Cubana Gringa
Friday, February 23, 2007
Only slightly more entertaining than an evening in Palo Alto...
Seeing as I’ve been happily dating The Brit for over 2 years now, I seldom get a taste of what dating is like these days. And thank sweet jesus for that, as I recently went out with one of my girlfriends, who is also a fellow surgical resident, and discovered just how bad it can be. And by "bad", I mean "funny."
Dr. Downtown and I went to a local bar to catch up over a couple of drinks. We’d been there for about an hour when she got up from the tiny couch we’d elbowed everyone else off of to go use the bathroom. Little did I know how vulnerable I’d be without a wingwoman to shield me from the advances of the barely post-pubescent...
Before Dr. Downtown’s seat could even cool off, a young thing, just barely legal I later found out, promptly sat down beside me. And proceeded to ignore me while he made a deliberate show of the fact that he was perfectly happy to just peruse the cocktail menu, thank you very much. He swung it around, examining the back and front several times, with all the dramatic skill of a high school thespian in his starring role. Then he leaned back in what I still considered very much to be Dr. Downtown’s seat, and almost succeeded in looking surprised to find me sitting there beside him.
“Oh, hey,” he said nonchalantly. “Anything good on this thing?” He pointed to the drink menu.
“You mean you’re actually planning to order one of those?” I asked, quite sincerely. He’d picked up the girlie menu of fruity cocktails, among which were the raspberry mojito and pomegranate martini that Dr. Downtown and I had ordered. Dainty drinks I didn’t think any man intending to hit on a woman would actually order in front of said woman.
“Well, I don’t know about all this other stuff, but the gimlet looks like my style,” he smirked.
I nodded, about to tell him that my drinking buddy was due back any moment and that he should probably move when he said…
“Yeah, so I’m here with ‘my boys.’ We live in Palo Alto, do you know where that is?”
This time I did the smirking. First of all, because I hadn’t had a conversation in which anyone had seriously referred to their posse as ‘my boys’ since I was in high school. And second of all, because he was clearly making an unsubtle attempt to be subtle about the fact that he was in some way affiliated with this reputable academic institution, which is the only reason anyone his age would ever live in Palo Alto. He misread my smirk for an invitation to tell me more.
“Yeah, so, you know what it’s like then. It’s like fuckin’ suburbia. It sucks. So you know what I mean when I say that, since we don’t come up to SanFran too often, when we do, we gotta make it count.”
Oh?? And how, exactly, was this kid, who probably doesn’t even shave yet, planning on ‘making it count?’
Just as I was about to find out, Dr. Downtown came back. She examined the Abercrombie and Fitch shirt tucked into the pants that were occupying her seat and then looked over at me. At which point I pointed out to him that he should probably move. He gave her the seat back and repositioned himself on the armrest of our sofa. Just as he was about to squirt yet another smarmy remark out from betwixt his lips, one of his ‘boys’ came over to join him. Some whispers were exchanged.
“Hey, I’ll be right back. I owe ‘my boys’ a round.” And he was off.
I filled Dr. Downtown in on his efforts to make this SF trip count. By the time he came back, with a gimlet in his hands, she was up to speed. And since he apparently wasn’t going away any time soon, we figured we might as well make it count.
“So, I take it you’re in undergrad in Palo Alto?” I said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of saying the name of his highly esteemed school.
“No, I’m in law school. First year.” He tried to say it as if the sheer vocalization of it didn’t give him a stiffy, but it did. You could tell. He was quite pleased with himself.
Dr. Downtown and I exchanged glances at the shameless attempt to impress us. As women who seldom tell strangers what we actually do, for reasons I’ve already disclosed, this was entertaining. And cute. And destined for failure. But he kept going, and without prompting I might add.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s cool and all, being a lawyer. But it’s not like lives will rest in my hands or anything. It’s not like I’m holding a heart in my hands…”
Considering I’d quite literally been out on a procurement call with the transplant team earlier that day, and I had, in no uncertain terms, actually held a heart during the operation, it almost seemed like we had to tell him what we did for a living. If for no other reason than to shut him up and move him out of the way so we could flag down our cocktail waitress for another drink.
Dr. Downtown looked sideways at me for the go ahead, which I gave her. “Yeah, we know about the whole ‘lives in our hands’ type of job,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Why, what do you two do?”
“We’re surgeons,” she said.
His head jerked back in surprise. He almost spilled his gimlet. The one he’d put so much effort into effortlessly choosing from the menu. “Nuh uhhh!! You two are surgeons???”
Nodding, I almost felt bad about how easy it was to knock him down a few notches, not to mention nearly off the side of the couch.
“Like Grey’s Anatomy types??” he said, still baffled.
Oh, jeez, here we go again. Yeah…exactly like on Grey’s Anatomy.
-La Cubana Gringa
Dr. Downtown and I went to a local bar to catch up over a couple of drinks. We’d been there for about an hour when she got up from the tiny couch we’d elbowed everyone else off of to go use the bathroom. Little did I know how vulnerable I’d be without a wingwoman to shield me from the advances of the barely post-pubescent...
Before Dr. Downtown’s seat could even cool off, a young thing, just barely legal I later found out, promptly sat down beside me. And proceeded to ignore me while he made a deliberate show of the fact that he was perfectly happy to just peruse the cocktail menu, thank you very much. He swung it around, examining the back and front several times, with all the dramatic skill of a high school thespian in his starring role. Then he leaned back in what I still considered very much to be Dr. Downtown’s seat, and almost succeeded in looking surprised to find me sitting there beside him.
“Oh, hey,” he said nonchalantly. “Anything good on this thing?” He pointed to the drink menu.
“You mean you’re actually planning to order one of those?” I asked, quite sincerely. He’d picked up the girlie menu of fruity cocktails, among which were the raspberry mojito and pomegranate martini that Dr. Downtown and I had ordered. Dainty drinks I didn’t think any man intending to hit on a woman would actually order in front of said woman.
“Well, I don’t know about all this other stuff, but the gimlet looks like my style,” he smirked.
I nodded, about to tell him that my drinking buddy was due back any moment and that he should probably move when he said…
“Yeah, so I’m here with ‘my boys.’ We live in Palo Alto, do you know where that is?”
This time I did the smirking. First of all, because I hadn’t had a conversation in which anyone had seriously referred to their posse as ‘my boys’ since I was in high school. And second of all, because he was clearly making an unsubtle attempt to be subtle about the fact that he was in some way affiliated with this reputable academic institution, which is the only reason anyone his age would ever live in Palo Alto. He misread my smirk for an invitation to tell me more.
“Yeah, so, you know what it’s like then. It’s like fuckin’ suburbia. It sucks. So you know what I mean when I say that, since we don’t come up to SanFran too often, when we do, we gotta make it count.”
Oh?? And how, exactly, was this kid, who probably doesn’t even shave yet, planning on ‘making it count?’
Just as I was about to find out, Dr. Downtown came back. She examined the Abercrombie and Fitch shirt tucked into the pants that were occupying her seat and then looked over at me. At which point I pointed out to him that he should probably move. He gave her the seat back and repositioned himself on the armrest of our sofa. Just as he was about to squirt yet another smarmy remark out from betwixt his lips, one of his ‘boys’ came over to join him. Some whispers were exchanged.
“Hey, I’ll be right back. I owe ‘my boys’ a round.” And he was off.
I filled Dr. Downtown in on his efforts to make this SF trip count. By the time he came back, with a gimlet in his hands, she was up to speed. And since he apparently wasn’t going away any time soon, we figured we might as well make it count.
“So, I take it you’re in undergrad in Palo Alto?” I said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of saying the name of his highly esteemed school.
“No, I’m in law school. First year.” He tried to say it as if the sheer vocalization of it didn’t give him a stiffy, but it did. You could tell. He was quite pleased with himself.
Dr. Downtown and I exchanged glances at the shameless attempt to impress us. As women who seldom tell strangers what we actually do, for reasons I’ve already disclosed, this was entertaining. And cute. And destined for failure. But he kept going, and without prompting I might add.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s cool and all, being a lawyer. But it’s not like lives will rest in my hands or anything. It’s not like I’m holding a heart in my hands…”
Considering I’d quite literally been out on a procurement call with the transplant team earlier that day, and I had, in no uncertain terms, actually held a heart during the operation, it almost seemed like we had to tell him what we did for a living. If for no other reason than to shut him up and move him out of the way so we could flag down our cocktail waitress for another drink.
Dr. Downtown looked sideways at me for the go ahead, which I gave her. “Yeah, we know about the whole ‘lives in our hands’ type of job,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Why, what do you two do?”
“We’re surgeons,” she said.
His head jerked back in surprise. He almost spilled his gimlet. The one he’d put so much effort into effortlessly choosing from the menu. “Nuh uhhh!! You two are surgeons???”
Nodding, I almost felt bad about how easy it was to knock him down a few notches, not to mention nearly off the side of the couch.
“Like Grey’s Anatomy types??” he said, still baffled.
Oh, jeez, here we go again. Yeah…exactly like on Grey’s Anatomy.
-La Cubana Gringa
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sometimes mothers don't know best...
I am not a big fan of set-ups or blind dates. I rarely and reluctantly agree to be set up by my friends… and even more seldom so by my parents. One thing I’ve learned, despite their suffocating love, is that my parents have no idea who is right for me. At this point, given my age, I think they probably think that anybody who is still breathing and is able to open his eyes to look at me (through his cataracts) and blink once for “yes” is a great match for me… and I am not even close to retirement. Nor do I look it. In fact, a few years ago, a girl at Great America, whose job it was to accurately guess people’s age, guessed I was 10 years younger than my stated age. I got to pick the biggest stuffed animal there and she might have been fired for it, but that’s another story.
Now back to dating. Even though I don’t like my parents setting me up with anybody, there have been a few exceptions. You would think that I would have learned my lesson, after they tried to introduce me to a few losers, one of which spent 4 hours telling me how drunk he liked to get and how so very much he enjoyed kicking people’s asses. Wow, what a catch! Then, there was that one nice bald guy… but he was so nice that I couldn’t figure out if he had a personality under that thick hairless layer of agreeableness. I don’t mind baldness when it’s on the top of a head, but I do mind baldness when it’s of the personality.
Anyway, apparently having not quite yet learned my lesson, my mother convinced me to meet the older son of one of the local doctors. Whatever she said to convince me to allow her this gesture is now beyond me. I guess I was in medical school at the time and he was related to somebody in medicine… I am not sure, but a few phone conversations later, he was driving an hour and a half to see me. I considered this a fairly bold move, so I was excited to meet this guy, a guy who will earn the right in all of our hearts and minds to deserve the name: Mr. Hands-On.
First impression: no sparks or fireworks. But, he had just driven such a long way, so I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. After about 2 minutes of hanging out, he offered to give me a massage. I would have considered it a nice offer, had it come from somebody who I knew well, but considering this guy had barely been in my presence long enough for me to steep my tea, I politely declined. Despite my several attempts to make conversation, each one was shot down with yet another proposal for a massage. He even offered a foot massage if I thought the idea of him touching my back was too forward. I was getting a little uncomfortable with his proposals. However, not only had he come all the way from another city to see me, he was the son of a friend of my mother’s. So I had to play nice.
We came back to my house after lunch. (In retrospect, a very poor administrative decision on my part.) I sat on the couch in my living room and he positioned himself on the floor. We had a semi-normal conversation for a few minutes, until his attention was suddenly distracted by the Costa Rican figurines on my bookshelf. His eyes shifted hungrily from one wooden figure to the next, each one of a man and woman in a different exaggerated sexual position. Note to self: Hide inappropriate figures when attempting to make a “proper” first impression. As well as when trying to stave off the advances of the overly-eager. I cringed at the thought of what he might say.
“I see there is a man kissing that woman’s breasts. Do you like your breasts kissed?”
WHAT?!?!? Though I should have half-expected it, I was still shocked at the audacity. We’d moved on from the topic of him massaging my feet to whether or not I liked my mammaries suckled. Smiling awkwardly, I explained to him that I didn’t feel comfortable discussing this on our first meeting. He seemed to have understood where I was coming from, and just as I thought we are going to switch subjects he proceeded…
“Well, if you are not comfortable talking about your breasts, then tell me what your favorite sexual position is… and do you like giving or receiving oral sex?”
I don’t think I even pretended to be polite after this question. I told him that I was suddenly very tired and asked him to leave. On his way out he informed me that I was a nice girl, but a little too TIMID for his taste!!! Oh if only he knew how wrong he was! But he’d never have the privilege to find out, much less to kiss my breasts.
He called me the next day though, to ask if I wanted to hang out again. So I decided to forgo timid, go unswervingly to bitch, and directed him straight to my mother. It’s high time she start meeting the men she decides to set me up with first. Actually, it’s high time I stop going on blind dates that she arranges…
-Innigma
Now back to dating. Even though I don’t like my parents setting me up with anybody, there have been a few exceptions. You would think that I would have learned my lesson, after they tried to introduce me to a few losers, one of which spent 4 hours telling me how drunk he liked to get and how so very much he enjoyed kicking people’s asses. Wow, what a catch! Then, there was that one nice bald guy… but he was so nice that I couldn’t figure out if he had a personality under that thick hairless layer of agreeableness. I don’t mind baldness when it’s on the top of a head, but I do mind baldness when it’s of the personality.
Anyway, apparently having not quite yet learned my lesson, my mother convinced me to meet the older son of one of the local doctors. Whatever she said to convince me to allow her this gesture is now beyond me. I guess I was in medical school at the time and he was related to somebody in medicine… I am not sure, but a few phone conversations later, he was driving an hour and a half to see me. I considered this a fairly bold move, so I was excited to meet this guy, a guy who will earn the right in all of our hearts and minds to deserve the name: Mr. Hands-On.
First impression: no sparks or fireworks. But, he had just driven such a long way, so I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. After about 2 minutes of hanging out, he offered to give me a massage. I would have considered it a nice offer, had it come from somebody who I knew well, but considering this guy had barely been in my presence long enough for me to steep my tea, I politely declined. Despite my several attempts to make conversation, each one was shot down with yet another proposal for a massage. He even offered a foot massage if I thought the idea of him touching my back was too forward. I was getting a little uncomfortable with his proposals. However, not only had he come all the way from another city to see me, he was the son of a friend of my mother’s. So I had to play nice.
We came back to my house after lunch. (In retrospect, a very poor administrative decision on my part.) I sat on the couch in my living room and he positioned himself on the floor. We had a semi-normal conversation for a few minutes, until his attention was suddenly distracted by the Costa Rican figurines on my bookshelf. His eyes shifted hungrily from one wooden figure to the next, each one of a man and woman in a different exaggerated sexual position. Note to self: Hide inappropriate figures when attempting to make a “proper” first impression. As well as when trying to stave off the advances of the overly-eager. I cringed at the thought of what he might say.
“I see there is a man kissing that woman’s breasts. Do you like your breasts kissed?”
WHAT?!?!? Though I should have half-expected it, I was still shocked at the audacity. We’d moved on from the topic of him massaging my feet to whether or not I liked my mammaries suckled. Smiling awkwardly, I explained to him that I didn’t feel comfortable discussing this on our first meeting. He seemed to have understood where I was coming from, and just as I thought we are going to switch subjects he proceeded…
“Well, if you are not comfortable talking about your breasts, then tell me what your favorite sexual position is… and do you like giving or receiving oral sex?”
I don’t think I even pretended to be polite after this question. I told him that I was suddenly very tired and asked him to leave. On his way out he informed me that I was a nice girl, but a little too TIMID for his taste!!! Oh if only he knew how wrong he was! But he’d never have the privilege to find out, much less to kiss my breasts.
He called me the next day though, to ask if I wanted to hang out again. So I decided to forgo timid, go unswervingly to bitch, and directed him straight to my mother. It’s high time she start meeting the men she decides to set me up with first. Actually, it’s high time I stop going on blind dates that she arranges…
-Innigma
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Things men should never tell a woman
Long before I married, I was out on a date with a young lady who possessed the innocence of one of those cloistered Catholic school girls (Yeah, right!). She was short of stature with an angelic face and equally ample caboose. We had been seeing each other for quite some time, but up to that point we had shared no carnal knowledge. As a matter of fact, she had never been engaged in any kind of sexual activity beyond the normal coital stimulation which women often perform upon themselves as they venture into self-discovery. The only time that an attempt was made happened to be on a snowy Christmas night when my parents were out of the house. She became quite excited as we thrusts our pelvic bones together and I was just about to give her the seasonal Yule Tide log when my mother walked in. This is just a brief history of our relationship which has absolutely nothing to do with what I am about to tell you; I just thought it might amuse my readers.
Anyway, one evening as we were manducating our victuals at a local eatery, my sweet and bashful convent girl asked me if I thought she looked fat. Initially I said that she was just right; a vision of loveliness. If she had accepted that response, I dare say that our relationship would have flowered into more mature and long-lasting adventures. However, she continued her furious interrogation, insisting that she was fat and that I should not be afraid of giving her my unbiased opinion of her figure.
“Well”, I said “you probably could stand to lose a few pounds.” From that moment and all the way to her front door, she obliged me to subject myself to a tirade of the most horrible insults and expletives known to man.
So, I said all that to say this, guys. Never, under any circumstances or duress should you ever voice your opinion concerning a woman’s weight or how she looks in a dress. If you do, you will be seeing a side of your woman that you thought never existed; not to mention the possibility of physical assault. I’ve seen both, and it’s not a pretty sight.
- Daddio
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