Author: themdq

Unavailable.

Unavailable, Date 1: We meet in Brooklyn Heights, Boca Lupa, a restaurant I hadn’t been to before. All glass and candles and wood. Warm-yet-controlled. Very Brooklyn Heights.

It’s when he says he was thinking we’d go to a different place for dessert, one with all kinds of chocolate, that I think it’s 100% impossible for this date to go badly.

A specific destination for dessert that’s full of chocolate?

Awe-some.

Awesome, that is, until —

Eyes closing, head bobbing, he’s falling asleep at dinner. As I’m talking. Okay, I know everything I say isn’t necessarily riveting, but this has never really happened before either. As I’m talking? At dinner? On a date? Nodding off?

He apologizes, says he’s tired. I’m so, SO sorry—I went to the gym for a couple hours — ran, rowed, spinned—and then I played soccer with my league. All today, he says. Tired.

Wow, I say, that’s INSANE. I went running, but only for an hour, and I considered myself amazing for doing it. (And, when I say “run” I really mean I got on that Elliptical machine. An hour is not so hard. And when I say an hour, I really mean about 45 minutes…Still I feel pretty good about myself.)

He laughs. He feels bad, you can tell.

Also: Falling asleep? At dinner? On a date?

We manage to go to the specific place full of chocolate dessert (which IS amazing — chocolate cake with chocolate frosting!).

Then, in some sudden burst of something—ambition? A second wind? (Guilt?)— unlike every date, most of whom never bothered to walk me to the subway, he doesn’t just walk me over, he walks me into the station and onto the platform and Sleepyhead, poor guy, waits until my train comes (and I mean waits, because it’s the G train).

Wow. Really nice guy. Clearly trying. Total gentleman.

Talk about dating unavailable men. I can hear my mother now. And my sister. After my sister stops laughing at me.

Please let the next one stay awake.

(Total Number of Dates: One)

The Corporation.

The Corporation, Date 1: Almost-Olympic skier. Marketing/Advertising. 34, hipster, fit. My height. Messy-yet-stylish short red hair. Rather sexy tattooed sleeves of pin up girls, both arms. We meet at the Belgian beer joint in Williamsburg, Sputen Dyvel; sit at its thick wooden bar. 

You know how corporations suggest you have a problem you never thought you had, then profit off solving it — fulfilling your new (non)need? Value Proposition? This guy—he’s a total corporation. 

He’s drinking a beer, I’m having wine; he’s telling me boastful skiing stories from the old days, things are going well. Then, in the middle of everything, he stops, says: You don’t look people in the eye enough. 

Just like that he’s criticizing me. I’m self-conscious anyway, and on a date, now I’m being told I’m observably flawed. I don’t know where I’m looking after he says this; it’s all slow motion and speedy at the same time, I’m probably NOT looking-in-his-eyes. He’s been talking, I haven’t been listening.

Then I hear: Heyyyyy—it’s okay… I realize he’s consoling me. You shouldn’t be so shy—you have GREAT eyelashes. You should feel GREAT looking into people’s eyes!

Now I’m listening. 

I’m particularly interested in this reasoning. Out of all the reasons I should look someone in the eye, it’s because of my eyelashes?

Next time I look at him, I see he’s assumed some air of self-satisfaction. Peacock-like. As if he’s figured it out all-by-himself: problem created, problem solved. He’s proud. I imagine his check-mark. Girl: Landed.

You should feel GREAT looking into people’s eyes. This is hanging in the space between us, when he grabs my hair, pulls me toward him and kisses me as if we just conquered my eye-contact problem together: we’re celebrating. 

I should have left. Instead, a Japanese restaurant—the kind where you cook your own food, called Dokebi Bar & Grill, he orders sake after sake, keeps asking me to go home with him. Come home with me, he says. I say, No but thanks, he keeps asking Why not, saying Please? Then begins the pouting—real, actual pouting.

Me: though I’ve had some sake, surprisingly sober. Him: so tanked he doesn’t remember how to get home. 

Do you know where I live? 

He’d actually pointed out his place earlier in the evening, so I say: Yeah, that way. Above the deli on the corner. 

I walk home.

•••

Leave. Get up and leave. Earlier. Way earlier. If there were do-overs. That’s what I’d do. Stop dating jerks. Stop staying. 

I stay, and then I don’t like myself, instead of not liking him. I should not like him. But I wake up the next day and I’ve got this pit in my stomach like I’ve done something wrong. I feel guilty for not leaving. 

On the up side: My first post-Thomas make-out! The Corp was hot and he had sleeves! At least that. 

So, The Corporation emails me TWICE the next morning asking me out. I don’t respond right away, because, you know, he barely knows where he lives, for one. He follows with texts that afternoon to see if I had gotten his emails. 

(Total Number of Dates: One)

This is who I dated last night

Relocate: No

Height: 5 ft. 10 in /177-180 cm

Body Type: Average

Smoking: Non-smoker

Drinking: I’m a light/social drinker

Race: Caucasian

Speaks: English

Education: Master’s Degree

Marital Status: Single

Occupation: Media

Religion: Atheist

Have Children: No

Want Children: Maybe

Hair Color: Brown

Hair Length: Short

Eye Color: Brown

Glasses or Contacts: Either

Drugs: Sometimes OK,

Self-Love: Sometimes OK

Self-Deprecation: Sometimes OK

 

Convo Starters

Some conversation starters that were in my inbox this week:

Subject: “OK”
Email: “OK”

Subject: “For Your Consideration”
Email: “Good Evening. What can I do for you. What comment or compliment, experiences can I offer you?”

Subject: “Greetings from Manhattan”
Email: “I got you as a match on this. I am curious about who you are and what’s happening in your life these days.”

Subject: “hi”
Email: “hi”

Subject: “hey”
Email: “hey”

Subject: “Good evening”
Email: “It would be a pleasure to make your acquaintance. – R”

Subject: “hey…!”
Email: “You are cute! Want to go out Sunday!!! LOL!!! Looking Forward!!”

Oh my god.

 

My Goods

The Last Thing That Made Me Laugh Out Loud: A graphic of two chocolate Easter bunnies facing one another. The first bunny had a bite taken out of his tail and a caption that said: “My butt hurts.” The second had a bite taken out of his ears and a caption that said: “What?” p.s. Maybe you have to see it. Seriously—it’s hilarious.

Best or Worst Lie I’ve Ever Told: I stole a Cadbury egg from Gemco, our local grocery store, when I was seven. That’s lying right? I was totally curious to find out if the Cadbury commercial was true. Did the inside of the chocolate egg really have an egg white and a yoke? How did they DO that? How did they get the yellow liquid to stay inside the white liquid, and how did they get those liquids into the chocolate shell in the first place? This blew my mind. Mom wasn’t buying. The egg or the argument for the egg. But I needed to know. And so I took an egg, unwrapped it, and—in a complete panic, worried that I’d be caught shoplifting—I shoved the whole thing into my mouth, thus completely preventing the dissection necessary to answer any of these questions.

The Best Or Worst Lie I’ve Ever Told: “No, it’s me. Really, it isn’t you, at all.”

Body Art: a couple (small) tattoos. An ellipses, an e. The e doesn’t stand for ecstasy or anything having to do with the Internet.

The Sports I Play, And The Sports I Watch: Play: Ms. Pac-Man. Watch: Boxing. Both, I notice now, rather violent.

In My Bedroom, You Will Find: Everything I own. (Greenwich Village, Manhattan). Or: Everything I own that’s not in my living room or kitchen. (Greenpoint, Brooklyn). Or: My bed. (Not borough- or neighborhood-specific).

Tip Of The Iceberg: Melted. Email Me If: You’re interested.

Message Me If: You want.

Why You Should Get To Know Me.

I have to write a personal statement. Like I’m applying to graduate school? Kill me now.

Where’d the drop downs go?

First up: “Why you should get to know me.”

So far, three versions:

Why You Should Get To Know Me, Version 1:

As opposed to reading a great book? Or watching an Errol Morris or Clint Eastwood movie? Going to see a play or concert, or hanging out with people you already know you like? Well—I know what I’d be doing instead.

(That’s good right? Like the guy learns what I like to do, while at the same time, I also have a little humility. Not too presumptuous. Is mentioning Errol Morris obnoxious? I wanted to put Herzog and Morris just for the truth of it, but I think that could be alienating maybe and I don’t want to attract an elitist-intellectual-asshole or seem like one. I love Bill Murray too. Not that he’s stupid.) 

I have a lot of interests of my own and I get pretty excited about them. But equally, I’m eager to learn about things other people are interested in. I’m no neuroscientist, but I’m smart enough. Generally very fond of and seek out, well, I guess the stuff most people do: movies, music, theater, (some) opera, (some) classical music, art museums, food, drink, etc. I’m not a cultural snob—I like 40 Year Old Virgin, Zoolander—lots. I’m a fan of Bill Murray and jokes that involve tripping or falling down stairs. Physical Comedy=yes. I’m good at or at least enjoy decoupaging stuff. Sometimes it even sells on Etsy. I exercise, but not compulsively. I have my own thoughts about things. I don’t take credit for things that aren’t mine to take credit for. It’s possible that on occasion (ahem) I’ll try to convince you I’m right. Or ignore the fact I’m wrong. Probably both.

(Like: I’m my own person and generally happy. I like other people who are their own person. I’m not an anorexic and I like myself enough to take care of myself. I’m not a total snob or a hick without any taste. That’s what I’m trying to convey).

Version 2:

Me. I love my job (design, children’s publishing, not book covers, corporate branding). I have friends who are very dear to me, some of whom have been my friends for a long, long time. I’m from a small town where, despite being excruciatingly shy, I held the titles of Future Farmers of America Sweetheart, President, Reporter and Historian and was State Champion of both Citrus and Horse Judging. Third in the “world” in Horse Judging, I might add, the “world” consisting of some town in Mexico and the USA. First/only time I’ve been in Dallas/Fort Worth. All this to say: I very much appreciate this city, but sometimes miss the dirt.

I have a nice family, one that’s definitely dysfunctional enough to be interesting. My parents are divorced and remarried (to other people): On one side: academia, public television and public service; on the other, a house on the fifth hole, a mammoth-size TV, usually blaring Fox news. It makes for spirited conversation.

My friends tell me I’m quirky. I don’t know what that means exactly. They also say I am one of the most active people they know, but I think that’s because they don’t happen to be around when I’m not doing anything. I do have a lot of interests. I’m always taking a class on something.

I have opinions. For example: I think someone should sue Bath and Body Works for creating that machine that blows lotion fragrance outside their stores. Seriously—isn’t it public space? Plus it’s always some massively sweet smell, melon or peach. Just a thought. And I’m open to your two cents. Like if you think we should get vigilante and counter with our own fragrance-machine, that’s cool. What fragrance? Hm...

 (Family/friend version with a bit more of my sense of humor (too unkind to unleash on internet strangers? some of whom I might like to actually go on a date with?). That is the point of this. Right. Do I just seem weird? Also: been near a Bath & Body Works recently? I’m serious about that machine.)

Version 3:

I love cornbread. The sweet kind though. Not the kind with the peppers. If you gave me the kind with the peppers, I’d be grateful for the gesture. But, I wouldn’t lie and say I love it and eat it and suffer and never tell you, so that you just kept trying to be awesomer by bringing me all this cornbread I don’t like. I’m at least that well adjusted.

I can listen and talk. I’m thoughtful. I have a sometimes-crude sense of humor. I enjoy my job. I think most things require asking a lot of questions. Or should. I wish I asked more of them. I appreciate people that do. I like to try new things, even when I’m afraid (terrified?)—or, actually, I don’t like to try frightening new things, but I do stuff anyway because I think it’s probably good for me.

(I’m a decent/thinking person. I think that’s the gist of this one. Kinda middle of the road version.)

Okay, so—which one of me would you date?

Kate Moss

I chose Athletic because Slim/Petite is as slender as you can get. There’s no Kate-Moss option in the drop down to contextualize Slim/Petite. This is New York City. I know I’m thin but I rather my date isn’t totally disappointed. I don’t want to witness the moment he walks up to me at the bar and finds out I’m Erin, see some “Oh-I-thought-you’d-be-Kate-Moss-Skeletal-but-you’re-Just–Thin,” expression washing over his disappointed face.

Women who choose Athletic, I’ve been told, are often overweight. But I think it’s possible the guys who told me that are overly judgmental slash ridiculous. All their girlfriends are total waifs. They probably don’t know what overweight is.

Counterpoint: I’d up my chances of actually getting dates by choosing Slim/Petite, right? While depressing, perhaps also optimistic?As if the guys looking for emaciated ladies would meet me, Just Thin, and, inspired by my incredible wit and charm, make the exception? Shrug to themselves, figure—Hey? Why not see what dating a Just Thin Girl is like? I’d like to be an optimist. And still, I don’t get why a person would oversell themselves on their profile, because your date is definitely going to find out and you’re going to have to watch their facial expression as they do. Excruciating!

I think New York City needs its own drop-downs. Seriously. Body Type: Emaciated/Williamsburg Skinny, Kate Moss Soho Skeletal, California Slim, French Svelte, American Slim-Petite, Athletic, Average, Anything More than Average/a Little Extra Padding, including: Thick, Generously Proportioned, Great Personality, Will Travel/Open to Moving Inland.

I guess a guy can see my photo anyway. Body shot.

Drop Downs.

It’s the (non)choices in the form of drop downs. That’s what’s getting to me.

Interested In: Friendship, Play, Dating, Serious Relationship

Gender: Female, male

Age Between: 30-34

Live In: Brooklyn

Relocate? Yes, No, Maybe 

Body Type: Athletic, Average, Slim/Petite, a Little Extra Padding, Thick, Generously proportioned, Prefer not to say

Hair Color: Blond, Red, Black, Brown, Other

Hair Length: Long

Eye Color: Blue

Race/Ethnicity: Asian, Black/African, East Indian, Hispanic/Latino, Middle Eastern, Native American, Pacific Islander, White/Caucasian

Languages: English

Education: School of Life, High School, College, Master’s Degree, PhD, Post-Doctoral

Marital Status: Single, Married, Divorced, Separated

Occupation: Graphic Designer

Income: Rather Not Say

Have Children: No

Want Children: Yes, No, Maybe, Prefer not to say

Pets: Likes

Religion: Atheist, Agnostic, Spiritual, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Jehovah’s Witness, Shinto, Sikh, Other, Not Religious, Neither Religious nor Spiritual, Prefer not to say

Star Sign: Leo 

Glasses Or Contacts: Neither

p.s. Ok, can I just say: I can’t believe people actually choose Play for what they’re Interested In. I’m repressed. Or they’re gross. I’m repressed. Also: who is here for Friendship? Really? Friendship? I imagine all the sex offenders choosing Looking for: Friendship.

“You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right.”

My online dating screen name: ilipsez.

Please don’t tell me it’s stupid because that’s what it is and I can’t change it now. I like the definition: “The omission from speech or writing of a word or words that are understood from the context.” Shared meaning, the spaces in-between. I like the idea that an ellipses can exist. Optimistic.

Am I being too intellectual? If so at least I have company—I couldn’t have “ellipsis” because other people already had it and who wants to be ellipses_twohundredtwenty? So I used the phonetic.

Oh, and, my headline: “You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right.”—You know, from When Harry Met Sally. I love Marie, Sally’s friend, who dates that married man and is repeatedly disappointed as he continues not to leave his wife. I love how Sally, and all her friends, keep telling her, over and over: No one thinks he’s EVER going to leave her, Marie. And how Marie just says You’re right, you’re right I know you’re right and then keeps dating him and keeps being disappointed, straight-up admitting to the problem out loud, implying some level of self-awareness, but then continuing to behave precisely the same way? I guess that’s what denial is. Nuts. Who hasn’t done this? No, I’m serious. I challenge you to find that person. We all do this, which is why I like the quote. And why it goes so well with my screen name. Some things do connect us all.

Mostly, When Harry Met Sally—killer movie. I should re-watch it tonight.

Oh, another headline idea I had: “If you want a guarantee, buy a toaster.” Eastwood! But might seem noncommittal or avoidant or something?

A Screenname, A Headline.

First, I need a screen name, a log-in.

One that’s great because everyone will see. Okay, not everyone, but here’s hoping a bunch of guys on the Onion Personals do. A screen name. For my profile. Something either totally ambiguous or something funny. Not something like: moving4wd (that’s just sad), not anything like sexy1 (ew) or swankkat434 (why?).

A screen name. And then I need a catchy headline, just a sentence or phrase. One that’s witty but not too witty, self-aware but not meta-obnoxious, maybe has a reference, but one that isn’t too pop-fun-woo-hoo-party-gurrrrrlllll or too academic stick-up-your-ass-boring. One that makes people look, obviously, but isn’t one-foot-in-and-one-foot-out, nothing like I’m Supposed to Write a Headline. That’s just a truly pussy thing to write. Who would date that person? Also it can’t have those kinds of words—nothing like ‘pussy’ that might give the wrong impression or totally offend. I guess that’s obvious. It should be a little edgy but not so edgy that it seems sarcastic or disingenuous. You know? A screen name. A headline.

Been checking out some guy’s profile headlines for fodder. I read this one the other day: This is a headline that is trying to grab your attention. Which, first of all, has too many words. I could cut three right now. Also: uh—not that creative. But it does grab your attention (or mine anyhow). It’s the word “grab”. Grab is a great word. It sounds like what it is. Like crooked. Crook-kid. Grab.

Headline Pressure Too Much To Take 

For a reason I can’t explain, this makes me laugh. Headline. Pressure. Too Much. To Take… I can hear the pressure building.

Area Man Sure The Onion’s Server Must Be Down (Or Something). 

Hilarious. Hil-ar-ious! I want to steal this headline. I’m upset I didn’t think of it. Please date me.

Given up on a clever headline 

Wow. Great attitude. You’re already giving up? In that case I totally want go out with you tomorrow!

Ok, super judgmental, I know, but—seriously?

Nasty, Brutish, and Short 

I do like a Hobbes reference, but do I like a Hobbes man?

because nothing says intimacy like the internet 

Fun-ny. Sounds like an ad for cologne. A little negative, though, right? And also: fun-ny. See, this is where I’m attracted to a person that I should probably-definitely not date. I want to email him right now.