The American In Paris

*The survivial career has had me slaving away, requiring me to neglect not only my new project, but my new readers.  As an apology I'm providing one of my favorite dating stories of yore (it's still mine).  Enjoy.  Promising to be back on track in July.  -The Almost Girlfriend.

Since 1995 when I saw the movie “French Kiss” starring Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline, I knew I needed to visit Paris.  I learned the language.  I had a poster of the Eiffel Tower on my bedroom wall.  And for my birthday I made it happen.  On my own.  For myself.  No one to burden me with their whims.

I boarded the plane at JFK and woke up in France.  The train ride from the airport to the city was breathtaking.  Even the graffiti on passing bridges and tunnels brought a sense of accomplishment accompanied by the tears that threatened to plummet from my eyes.  The accents were beautiful.  The people were perfect.  The art was brilliant.  I was wholly swept away by the city and everything it embodied; it exceeded every expectation.

During the first few hours in what was clearly where I belonged, I felt waves of emotions ranging from disbelief to happiness to panic at my level of complete comfort.  I was thousands of miles and an ocean away from everything I knew… until now.  My mind was open to all new possibilities of life, love, food, art, and spirituality.

I decided to leave my camera at the hotel that first night.  I wanted to experience it with my own eyes rather than through the digital screen of my cheap Sony Cybershot.  I had been told about a champagne bar on the Champs-Elysee called Monte Cristo so I went.  Walking up to it, I was less than amused.  This was totally a Carmine’s meets Paris kind of vibe.  I go in, expecting whatever the Universe wanted to hand out.  In the back was a small sign: EN BAS A LA BARRE (downstairs to the bar).

I entered Mecca.  Champagne.  Beautiful Parisian men.  Exotic French women.  And me.  “Transform me!  Teach me your ways!” I wanted to shout.  But I played it cool.  A dark and brooding man overheard my American accent when I ordered and came over.  For the next three hours I sat, sipping champagne, answering questions so this Frenchman could hear my accent.  All the while wanting to hear his.

We closed the bar and went back to my hotel’s bar.  He was terribly French in every sense of the word.  I swooned.  He embodied Paris and I took every advantage of the gift I’d been given.  The next morning we went our separate ways and I marveled at the fact that I never do things like that back home.  And then I laughed at the fact that I also came to Paris alone so maybe my coy act in the city wasn’t getting me too far.

I did the touristy thing that day and soaked up a number of sights – The Louvre, The Eiffel Tower, The Opera House, and more.  I walked the quaint, cobblestone streets basking in the French beauty I had dreamed of.

I returned to the hotel after hours of wandering the city in too expensive, too cute shoes (I was in Paris… comfort was not an option) exhilarated.  A note from my new French hottie was at the front desk.  MEET ME TOMORROW, it read.  The place: The St. Louis Bridge behind Notre Dame.  The time: 4pm. 

Around 3pm the next day the grey sky opened up.  I love rain.  I find it a good omen unless it’s a steamy rain causing my hair to frizz beyond comprehension.  This was not one of those rains.  It was more than a drizzle, less than a downpour.  It was perfect.  As I rounded the corner (in yet another pair of fabulous shoes), umbrella shielding me, I heard the faint sound of an accordion player.  Smoking a cigarette, wearing a black jacket and hat, and leaning against the railing of the bridge stood my Frenchman.  It was out of a movie.  I paused breathlessly before approaching.

My night was filled with everything perfectly Parisian.  We had a chocolate dinner with too much wine.  We went to a piano bar in Montmartre and had crepes and more wine.  He introduced me to Parisian macarons.  We walked down all over the city until well after midnight.  After four more nights spent together we decided to leave our tryst in Paris.  We wouldn’t even try to top what we had experienced with a long-distance thing we both knew would never work.

I spent my final day doing more sight-seeing things that had not been checked off my list.  And when I went to the airport that night, he was waiting for me at the check-in counter.  A gift in hand, he made me promise not to open it until I was on the plane.  I promised, kissed him goodbye, and went to my gate.  As soon as I got to my seat, I tore open the gift.  In French he had written a note, “We’ll always have Paris and the best week of my life.  If you’re ever back or want to see me in the States, here is my info.  If I don’t hear from you, I’ll always think of you fondly.”  His phone number, address, and email address was covering the title of the DVD I held.  “un americain a paris”… An American in Paris.

My flight back was reflective.  The eight hours were devoted to looking through pictures, recalling my incredible, dream-like week, and re-reading his note.  I had lived a fantasy to my wildest imaginations.

The Goth Gamer

When I started this experiment, the only two rules I gave myself were to turn down no date unless I felt uncomfortable and to write about all of the experiences.

So when an unexpected opportunity descended into the picture, I thought there’s not a better time than now to just dive in. As you may recall I did a little social experiment involving fake profiles on a dating website. Remember the final faux dater? The stupid one? The one with hundreds of messages?? One of those messages was from The Goth Gamer.

“I have a couple of friends who might like to meet you,” his message read.
“Are these friends in your pants??”

He instant messaged. “I walked right into that one, huh?” Indeed he did. “Is that really a picture of you?” “Of course it is,” I lied. He didn’t need to know who I really was, right? We continued chatting. I checked out his profile, which seemed different than other guys’. This became a challenge, so the messaging continued. Before long he came clean. “I’m a moderator on this site, and I actually contacted you to catch you.”

My plan was found out. I panicked. “I see. Well, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m doing a social experiment.” I told him everything and gave him my correct email address in hopes of not being banned from the site for all eternity. I let him know I was a writer simply testing some theories. He told me I needed to remove the fake picture. Eventually we moved to g-chat using our real names.

I knew what he looked like from his profile. I knew his job. I knew everything he had divulged on his profile. He knew nothing except that I was a writer, was witty and clever, and made good conversation. I liked it this way. It somehow gave my experiment an interesting twist. After two hours (yes, two hours we chatted into the late hours of the night), I finally signed off.

The next day I got a Facebook friend request from this seriously cute, black-adorned, Mohawk-sporting, game designer. “I had no idea you were so cute,” he messaged me. I guess he was expecting a frumpy, middle-aged, crazy housewife a la Catfish – maybe he’s doing a dating experiment himself. I normally don’t do the Facebook thing with boys, let alone boys I don’t know. But I thought why not?

After a couple of days of playing the getting-to-know-you game via every technological means he could find, he asked me if I wanted to go out. Following my newfound rules of dating, I said yes... though I wasn’t sure if he meant as friends or more. This was quite a unique dynamic we were setting up, and I kind of loved the game we were playing. We met at restaurant in my hood, his choice, on the only day of the week it was closed. He rounded the corner…

He was beautiful. I was not expecting this. The Mohawk I was dreading from the late-30-something was completely sexy. His voice was melting. His eyes were piercing – the kind of baby blues that never fail to stop me. How did I miss this on Facebook? Shows how uninvested I suppose I was.

We decided to walk to the next restaurant option. He was authoritative and prepared. I let him order for me… why not just throw all the regular rules out the window? This might have been one of the best meals of my life. I tried to not go on and on and on about it. As he talked it was uncanny how much we had in common in our views of love and relationships and dating. Maybe two cynical commitment-phobes make a good pair – at least for a date or two.

Dinner turned into coffee. Coffee turned into dessert. Dessert turned into a walk in the park. A walk in the park turned into kissing on a bench at 3am. I couldn’t believe how I was clicking with this self-proclaimed “King of the Nerds”. He walked me home, and I wasn’t sure if this was goodbye or goodnight. He was very cool.

I got a text the next afternoon. Well, well. Guess it wasn’t goodbye after all. We made a movie date and met up at a restaurant of his choice. He was late. Never a great way to start a date (a second one at that). But I’m a relatively laidback gal and certainly can cautiously move on. Dinner was fantastic again (the boy knows his food). In the movie I surprisingly didn’t find myself in that weird is-he-gonna-try-to-hold-my-hand/junior-high-school mentality that I feel we ladies tend to do at times. It was comfortable, like someone I’ve known for awhile. He wasn’t grabby, but it was clear he wasn’t just a friend. After the movie we went back to my place. I wasn’t ready for the whole she-bang (pun intended), but I also wasn’t ready for the date to end just yet and neither was he.

We chatted for a bit and then we kissed. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that that fool is the best kisser I’ve ever had. I mean, for real. The nerdy boys know where it’s at apparently. I was rendered useless. We continued on that path for awhile exploring, kissing, and enjoying each other. There were even neck massages at one point... whatever THAT’S about. I just wanted my hands on him, and he felt the same. Not that I plan to make this blog about my sex life (or lack thereof), but I’ll just go ahead and say that we did not have sex. Not quite sure why at this juncture that seemed relevant, but I’m gonna go with it.

I didn’t hear from him the following day, and I have to admit I was surprised. We’ve actually had limited conversations since our date the last week. I’m not sure if that means he got (or didn’t get) what he wanted and he’s done. Or if it’s just a matter of two grown New Yorkers being busy and not making time to hang out. Or if maybe I should remember this started as an experiment and if I never hear from him again, I’ll be just fine.

Anyway you spin it, I had a couple of great dates with a guy I normally would not have thought twice about (and did I mention the amazing kissing??) So if that’s all it is, it was a helluva way to start this journey.

There just may be more of The Goth Gamer. And if I’m being honest, gentle readers, I sort of hope this chapter is only the beginning with more stories to come. Stay tuned…

The Boston Flake

The Red Sox beat the Yankees last week.  The Bruins won the Stanley Cup last night.  Sarah Palin recently made all women and Americans proud with her retelling of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.  All these have had my thoughts on Boston.  And what better way to regale my dating ups and downs than to start things off with The Boston Flake.

I met The Boston Flake in the spring of 2009.  The charming, blue-eyed Massachusetts native required me to change my texting plan to unlimited for all the morsels we sent back and forth before our first official date.  Between respective trips to visit our parents, we finally found a night to meet up at one of my favorite midtown dives.  The laid-back, golden haired dreamboat flashed his teeth at me as I approached.  I was done for.

Our conversation was breezy as he pounded back beer after beer after beer, his eyelids lowering with every swig.  He talked of Massachusetts.  He told me his impressive resume.  He stood for what I thought was going to be an approach-and-kiss only to say:

“I gotta go drain it.”
“Excuse me?”
“The bathroom?  I gotta go.”
“Oh.  Um, alright.”

My internal monologue hazy from one too many Absolut/Sprites had me asking if that really just happened.  “Drain it”?  Classy.  I resolved I was done.  He sauntered back, pressed right up on me, lightly kissed me, and smiled.  His beer breath my instant weakness.  He tried to go home with me that night without success.

I was fairly new to the dating arena and certainly much less jaded than I find myself more than two years of singledom later.  So his antics were ones I fell for.  His baby-blues (another weakness for me) could have asked for many things and gotten them.  A few weeks later he invited me to Brooklyn for dinner.  I was very excited.  About an hour before I was to be there he texted, “Will you stop and pick me up some shampoo?”  Strange request from a guy I barely knew, but maybe this was how dating in the city goes between two adults.  The directions he had provided to his place were wrong.  I wound up in Scaryville, Brooklyn, NY, USA.  I called him, uneasy. 

“What are you near?”
“Warehouses?  Can you come get me?”
“Oh!  You’re on the other side of Williamsburg.  You should get out of there.”
“How do I get to you?  I have no idea where I am.”
“Just find a cab or walk toward the bridge.  You’ll figure it out.”

Not wanting to be anything less than a self-sufficient woman of the 2000’s I resisted the urge to get in a cab back to Astoria.  I showed up at his apartment an hour later.  His dimples suddenly caused all irritations to fade.  Dinner was wonderful.  His dog was perfect.  We watched some ridiculous show on A&E or History Channel about weaponry – my favorite topic.  And then he started snoring.  He was OUT.  I tried to wake him relentlessly for an hour.  It went from being a game to a frustration to a concern.  I called The Constant for advice.  “Just leave,” he said.  Gasp!  Really?!  How rude would that be?!  Ok… no ruder than Boston Flake asking me for shampoo, telling me to find my own way there, watching a show about guns, and falling into such a deep sleep his lady-guest was left confused.

I didn’t speak to the hot New Englander for a few days.  When I did hear from him, it was business as usual.  Flirty texts, “let’s make a date” banter, and whines about his unemployment ensued.  Oh, did I fail to mention that??  He was out of work… for the entire time we dated.  His parents paid his rent, and he couldn’t take me out.  However, his refrigerator was always filled with beer – cheap, gross Natty Light, but beer nonetheless. 

Knowing his penchant for the Red Sox and at-the-time lack of funds in the bank, I invited him to the Sox/Yanks game when my Boston Babes came into town.  A double-date as Bleacher Creatures at the new Yankee Stadium could never be a bad thing… until you figure the Sox having their butts handed to them by the Jeter-led Yanks.  We left the game early and found a Red Sox friendly bar serving tater tots covered in gravy.  At the table, Mr. Flake himself passed out.  Literally.  He was speaking one moment and sound asleep the next.  At the table.  Hilarious yet absurd.

Plans always fell through, moods never panned out, and eventually our relationship sifted into next to nothing.  I ran into The Boston Flake at a midtown bar the following spring.  Our instant connection was inevitable and my friends left me sitting there with him when it was time for them to head home.  Laughing until I cried we played catch-up as he told me about his new job and adventures to Massachusetts with his crazy family, and then he stopped short and said:

“It’s too bad we couldn’t work together”
“Ehn… everything happens for a reason”
“You do know why we didn’t work, right?”
“I do.  But I’m curious why you think we didn’t work.  Enlighten me.”

He began to list.  “#1 is that goddamn dog.  She is ugly and high-maintenace, and she makes you seem more high-maintenance than you actually are.”  I laughed.  He had met my dog once and I only initially even brought her up because he was also a dog-owner.  She never traveled with me, unlike his dog who rode in a bike basket everywhere with him.  “Please continue with your list.  I’m dying to know the rest,” I said to him appalled.  He went on, “#2 is the gay mafia.”  “Pardon??”  “Ya know, the gay mafia you travel around with.”

Just to be clear, I’m a single girl in NYC.  I love my gay friends.  They provide unending friendship and support, and I give it freely in return.  However, I don’t travel about with a merry band of homos.  In fact, he had only met a few of them at my birthday party the year before.  I don’t talk about them endlessly, and I’m definitely not one of those girls who have to bear the unfortunate title of “Fag Hag.”  I have my own life and don’t need to live vicariously through my friends who happen to like the same sex.

“Really?  The Gay Mafia?  You really think that’s why we didn’t work??”
“Well, I thought so.  Don’t get defensive.  It’s just intimidating – the whole package.”

And there’s the crux of the biscuit.  Intimidation.  The strong single girl’s paradox.

Since then I’ve spoke to him a handful of times, with each correspondence ending with a promise to buy me a drink, but never (and not expectedly) following through.  However, I still can’t take a Bolt Bus to Beantown or even see Mitt Romney on my television screen without smiling and shaking my head at the experience that was The Boston Flake.

Shady Lady

To begin this journey I wanted to start with a basis founded in quick, cheap, unscientific journalism.  I created a series of fake online profiles to see what kind of hits I might get - just for kicks.  The first was an intelligent profile of a smart, successful woman ready for love in the Big Apple.  She did not have a picture on her account because she was worried about the stigma attached to online dating for someone in her position at work.  She got 2 messages from quite possibly the most unfortunate looking men in the tri-state area.  She responded to these 2 men to thank them for their interest but to let them also know that she had "reconnected with her ex" and would be deleting her account in the coming days.

After a week or so, I altered this profile to be a little more open, less successful, and ready for the Big L - complete with a picture I found on Google of a moderately attractive every-woman.  She got 3 more messages - this time from older men, possibly old enough to be her dad.  No worries though, she responded to these guys that after going on one online date she realized she wasn't quite ready to put herself out there and would be disabling her profile until things got sorted out.  Whew.  They dodged a bullet filled with crazy.

A few days later, I updated this false profile once again.  This time she was an idiot.  She only cared about being pretty, maintaining her femininity, and having some strapping man help her work out her confusion regarding her sexuality.  Oh, yes... and she was hot.  5'6", 130 lbs, brunette, huge boobs.  She packed quite a physical punch.  Anyone care to guess how many hits?  Go ahead.  I'll wait.

327.  327 men (and a few women) viewed her profile.  She received over 100 messages.  Lucky girl.  While I didn't go through all of them, I took a gander at a sampling.  Some were lecherous creeps.  Others were married guys looking for a hookup.  Several were actually decent guys whose profiles claimed they were looking for a relationship.  And to be clear, I don't doubt their sincerity.  I, too, would take an easy feel-good by a pretty boy if it were thrown in my face.  

This small portion of my journalistic journey has concluded.  I just wanted to see what would happen and give myself a little jumpstart on this trip.

Date Experimenter

I love to date.  I even think I'm pretty good at it.  So I'm going to share my experiences here.  I have some ideas about fun predicaments to get into to create some good stories.  And who knows!!  Maybe I'll hit a spark with someone along the way.

If you have ideas you'd like to share, adventures you'd like me to write about, unconventional places to meet these guys, let me know!!  This experiment is for my readers as much as for me.  So share.

Email me here

Here We Go

I've been writing for awhile.  I've written a great deal about dating.  I've written even more about New York City.  I've toyed with marrying those two at the request of friends.  So here we are.

Let's see if we can create some fireworks in the city.