Things We Don't Talk About On Dates

The Asian Sensation sent me this fabulous article... and then I realized how its tongue-in-cheek nature is sort of how I operate in actuality.  Hmm... and we wonder why I'm so single I do dating experiments :)

Things We Don’t Talk About On Dates, Ladies

Jul. 28, 2011

By Stephanie Georgopulos

 

There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned date. A meeting of hopeful minds, two could-be lovers unwinding over a mid-priced meal. The wine flows like lava and the conversation is bottomless, like an order of breadsticks from the fine Italian eatery Olive Garden (be still, my heart!). Yes, a date is like a lemon – bright and… acidic? And… I guess it sort of stings when it squirts in your eye without warning. I think I’m doing this wrong; the point is, when you go on dates, I want you to think of a lemon. A lemon can be one of two things: a refreshing garnish for your cocktail, or a defective person. (By defective person, I mean you. We are talking about you.)


How might a sane and rational woman, a lady, morph from someone worthy of courtship into part of a family whose members are left to rot on suburban lawns? It’s simple. You get sauced, and all of the promises you made to yourself before embarking on your evening of merriment fly out of the window along with your dignity (or your undergarments, depending on the hour).

Don’t get all doe-eyed on me, sister. Magazines, television, films, music videos, your grandmother, your mother, your younger sister who somehow managed to get married before you, your friends who have more sex than you do, that one blog you pretend not to read because it has a cutesy title that screams YOU’RE NOT 21 ANYMORE BUT YOU’D LIKE TO BE? READ ON, the unmarried woman who owns the cafe that charges four dollars for a fucking twelve-ounce iced coffee, are you serious, that is way too expensive, and your disapproving landlady have been telling you since you were pushed out of your mother’s gently-used-but-married vagina: there are things you just don’t speak of on dates.

I see you’re recalling something. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but could it be you’re remembering how you found yourself discussing your last relationship while you were on a date? You tip-toed around it, avoiding it all night like a wine spill or expelling gas, but it happened anyway, didn’t it? Your date volleyed back, sharing something equally innocuous about their last relationship, and you thought, “Okay, this doesn’t seem like the end of the world. Are we doing this right now? We’re doing this right now! Adult-like!” Then one of you maturely changed the subject, segueing into other topics of relevance, like the Woody Allen film neither of you have seen or particularly care about seeing, or the couple beside you who is desperately attempting to resuscitate one another, with tongue, dear god, do people still make out like that in public? That is simply boorish, we would never do such a thing, we discuss our past relationships with flourished hand gestures and knowing head nods and we move on when appropriate and god, I hope we are the disgusting making out couple an hour from now.

How many times must Cosmopolitan, Kate Hudson, and Grandma Ninny tell you that you do not discuss your escape from indentured servitude until Date Three, at least? Grandma Ninny was married sixteen times, did you know that? She knows what she’s talking about. You are not allowed to be vulnerable, drunk, yourself, or honest while on a date. If that worked, fishermen would sit at the edge of their boats murmuring, “Fish – I just, tried my hardest, you know? It’s been so long since I’ve been fishing, and the last fish I caught gave me food poisoning and I’m… I’m scared, fishies. Please jump in my boat.” Do you see fishermen doing that? No. They trick the fish by giving it something tasty, and when the fish shows it’s hooked, it’s ripped from the water and is left to flop about, suffering until it can no longer fight for air and then it dies. Let’s not even get into what they do with the body afterward. Do you see where I’m going with this?

And another thing. Stop talking about your job. Your date does not want you to be financially independent, have interests, teach them things, or give them any insight whatsoever into worlds they’ve never known firsthand due to their contrasting life experience. Your job is insignificant, just like your middle name and your credit score. Bleh – boring. No one wants to talk about your accomplishments that have, in no way, shape or form molded you into the person you are. Really, the way you pass the time for over sixty hours a week is of no consequence.

Do not show up on a date and discuss how stressed out you are by your career. This is totally rational advice, you are totally rational, that is why you are never stressed out about your career. Rational. Reality. You are a reasonable, realistic, rational person who is never stressed out. You are an exclamation point. You are fun. Whenever you are about to say something related to your job, replace it with something fun like, “I’m having so much fun,” or, “This bar stool is fun.” People like fun, people do not like careers.

Lastly, do not speak of the things you’ve read. Reading is intimidating. Telling someone you’re a reader is like telling someone you’re a brain surgeon. “I just finished the new Jennifer Egan and successfully performed a hemicraniectomy. What’s the last book you’ve read / brain surgery you’ve performed?”

No, you must pretend not to read, and you must especially pretend not to read articles that tell you how to behave on dates. People want to date a freethinker who, in spite of themselves, will act with conviction and not in accordance with what society markets as acceptable dating behavior. No, no one wants to date that person, the one whose actions are dictated by embittered, neurotic writers. It’s best you don’t mention it.

The Bagel-Eating Democrat

In doing this super fun (yet sometimes beleaguered) online dating experiment, I've thought back on the history of online dates I've had in my past.  My very first was in the spring of 2008.  I was unsure how the whole situation worked.  My profile was god-awful with pictures that were just wrong.  I have no idea how I attracted anyone at all.  And then I look at who did contact me.

In the middle of the biggest Presidential election season of my lifetime, I thought it was super cool that a worker for Hillary's campaign emailed me.  He was attractive, a bit younger than myself, and a hard-core democrat.  All sounds good for finding someone to have a little fun with, right?

When we spoke on the phone, he told me about his fashion blog, so I instantly thought I was falling into old habits by potentially hooking up with one of those "confused" guys (more on that tidbit o'fun in a possible future post).  He asked me to meet up with him at a French bakery on 9th Avenue in midtown.  I was confused because I'm quite familiar with all things midtown and all French places in NYC in general, and I knew of no French patisseries anywhere near there.  But I went along with it.

We met up and walked down 9th Ave to this phantom spot until we were almost to Port Authority where the Bagel-Eating Democrat remembered he didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

"Would you want to go to a bar instead?"
Sigh (is this what online dating is about?), "Sure.  That's fine."
"You pick.  My ideas are busts."

We headed to Vintage on 51st and 9th and sat down about the time I noticed he didn't look as much like his pictures as I recalled.  I immediately turned the conversation to Hills and his working for her campaign.  Finally something interesting to both of us.  The waitress (who has come to be my favorite waitress in midtown since I've been on a number of first dates, had a few birthday parties, and even some random late night forages for nachos there) approached:

"What can I get you guys?"
Ladies first, "Absolut Pears and Sprite [my signature drink]"
"And you, sir?"
"Water.  I don't drink," in his most condescending tone.

Cool Waitress made eye contact with me, smirked, and walked away.  I told him we didn't have to come to a bar, and that I didn't NEED an alcoholic drink.  He said it was fine and continued his story about Hills giving speeches.

Cool Waitress returned with our bevvies, "Would you guys like some food?"
He gestured for me to go first.  I honestly don't remember what I ordered, but it was something light and quick as I knew this date wouldn't be lasting long.
She turned to my now annoying date, "I'm not hungry. Thanks."
Another look from Cool Waitress.

Shaking my head and a bit embarrassed that I was now the girl with a cocktail and a plate of food on the way, I listened to more campaign lore.  A few bites into my appetizer, the Democrat pulled out his trendy messenger bag and retrieved a bagel from it.

Uh.  I thought you weren't hungry, mister.

"A guy's gotta eat," he told me.

We finished our drinks, and I told him I thought I was going to call it a night.  It was already 7pm, and I had a lot to do.

"Need me to ride home with you?"
"Nah, I'm good," I told him.
"Well, I'll walk you to the subway at least."

We got to Columbus Circle.  "Here's me," I said.  He then leaned in, opened-mouthed, ready to devour my face.  I performed a dodge only known outside this instance as a contortionist's move and maneuvered into an awkward hug.  "You sure you don't want me to go home with you?"

I was sure.  My hour with The Bagel-Eating Democrat will never leave the forefront of my mind.  And every time I eat a bagel, I think of him... and am horrified.

A lil update for ya...

It's 793 degrees in NYC.  The thought of dating or rubbing up on someone makes me nauseous.  So here's an update to keep you interested.  And feel free to share this with your peeps.  The more readers I get, the more ideas I get from my readers, the more fun we can have.

The Boston Flake: Are you reading me, sir?  Or did you just pop up for kicks?  Flakey as always.

The Goth Gamer: Quite an amazing dude actually.  Who knew that would happen?  We've gone out, we've stayed in, we've laughed, we've argued.  He's a brilliant, neurotic, sexy, nerdy, funny arse-hole... just the way I like 'em (and we wonder why I'm perpetually single??)  We'll see where it goes.  The journey seems interesting and exciting.  I'll keep you posted.  Fingers crossed we continue to dig each other.

The Unconvertible Muscle: After receiving a handful of texts, I decided to let him know I wasn't into him.  His response?... "who is this?  I delete a lot."  Guess we were on the same page after all.  [wipes the sweat from her brow, knocks the dust off her shoes, smiles, moves on]


The Harvard Persistence: Another email.  This time he berated me for not working on our "friendship or anything else for that matter."  Although I am "kind of a good kisser."  Well, thank you for that.  No worries, however... despite the fact that he is "very anti-gun" he's attending a singles' event at a pistol range so he can "actually feel a gun and fire one."  Good for him.  I'm tempted to reply to him so I keep getting the fun emails...

There's a quick email to start our weeks.  I have some unexpected and unusual free time this week, so maybe I'll be able to score some fake dates for my journalistic efforts.

The Harvard Persistence

One of my greatest dating stories comes to us thanks to The Harvard Persistence.  A very particular, somewhat peculiar 40-something, he was eager to plan an unforgettable evening.  What did he come up with?  Dinner at an Italian restaurant in midtown followed by a movie in Times Square.

Here's the deal: If we do dinner on a first date, make it someplace weird or unique.  And if we're going to do a movie, make it something interactive or different (think "Rocky Horror Picture Show" at midnight or a viewing in Brooklyn Bridge Park with Grimaldi's in hand).  Something even more out there would be all the better, but I digress.

After we (rather he) set the details, he emailed me to inform me that texting to let him know I'm on my way would not be necessary as it annoys him and to only call him to let him know if I was going to be fifteen minutes or more late.  With that, I knew I was in for quite a ride.  I told this to The Suzz, and she was able to point out that I'd been given instructions... rules, if you will, because he's a middle school teacher.  Of course he is, and come to find out I'm young enough to be one of his former students easily.

I showed up to Nizza right on time, no texting/no calling as I was told.  I can follow instructions though I was tempted to text "1 block away!!" at one point.  He tried to pull out my chair for me, which is just awkward on a good day with a good date, then he asked if he could check my coat.  "My coat's fine on the back of the chair.  No worries," I told him.  We proceeded to have decent conversation, as I do so like to meet new people and learn new things.  When the check arrived, before I even had the chance to get my wallet out, he said "Do you want me to pay half?"  My thought was, "At LEAST half, buddy.  You asked me out."  But I just said something like "sure" probably with a very perplexed face.

As we left the restaurant I was tempted to feign an emergency but decided to go with it... after all I like movies and didn't have anywhere else to be.

"Which movie are we seeing?"
"I thought we could decide together?"
"Cool.  What are the options?"
He pulled out a newspaper clipping.  "Let me look."

Wait a second.  This guy just pulled out the NYTimes movie listings.  Who knew they even printed them there anymore?

"I can probably pull it up on my phone quickly," I said.
"No!  I've got it.  Plus I hate smartphones."

Wait another second.  You live in NYC in 2011 and you hate smartphones?  Ok, ok.  I have a few friends who still don't do the smartphone thing, the Facebook thing, or the Twitter thing.  Hell, I don't even get the Twitter phenomenon myself (though I have an account and my intern thinks The Almost Girlfriend needs one herself... thoughts on this??)  But to hate smartphones when we're standing on the corner of 42nd & 9th like idiot tourists who don't even have it together enough to not have a newspaper clipping??

"How about Rango?"
"The kids' movie?"  I heard it was cute, but for a date?  For a first date??  Whatever  I went with it.  Add to the story, right?
"I'll get the movie.  You get the concessions.  Deal?"
Sure, fella.  Whatever you say.

We got to our seats, and Harvard pulls out count 'em... not one, not two, but FIVE straws.  Ya know, because one might break.  Obviously.  Then he said to me, "I know this might be silly, but I bought you a present."  Taken aback and a bit uncomfortable, I braced for what in the world I could've mentioned to him that he remembered I liked or what piece of previous conversation could be turned into a gift.  He pulled this out:

"Oh, how nice," I said completely unaware of what I was holding.  He explained to me the significance of it, though I've forgotten completely since it had absolutely nothing to do with anything we'd talked about.  Don't get me wrong - I like gifts.  But strange little boxes on first dates are just... well, strange.  When opened, this is what I found:

And don't think for a second I got rid of it.  It's in a bowl of memorabilia that have weird explanations.  This bowl lives on the bookshelf in my bedroom.  While I'm the opposite of a pack-rat, I keep strange things like this to whip out for conversation pieces on a whim.

When Harvard asked me for a second date, I felt like I should say yes.  He was a nice guy, and quite frankly didn't have a chance for this date what with the rules, the dinner, and the movie.  I thought I'd plan the next one and see if he could pull that off.  But the second date wasn't any better - he even wore his Harvard sweatshirt as a talking point to let me know yet again that he had a degree from there.  As he pecked me goodnight, I knew it was the last time we'd hang out.  Alas, he did not.  He called the next day to set a third date, and I told him I just didn't think we were a good match, that he's a Type A planner, and I'm much more go-with-the-flow, see-what-happens girl.  Also he had lied about his age, and the problem with having parents who birthed me as teenagers is that my window for the older guys is smaller than others since I think they need to be closer to my age than my dad's.  Call me crazy.

"Can I still call you?"
"Well, I don't really see the point in that.  I don't think we'll be going out again."
"Then can I email you?"
"I can't tell you NOT to email me, but I can't guarantee you'll get a response.  I don't really see what that can serve except to lead you on."
"Ok.  Well, then I'll email you soon."

Fine.  Whatever.  He won't.

Wrong.  Two days later I got an email detailing a play-by-play of his week.  I didn't respond.  Another few days after that, I got an email telling me about his dad's birthday dinner.  Still no response.  And then a doozy came.

The first part talked about a Broadway show and the NYTimes, then he moved on to discussing his softball games.  From there he went into what can only be described as the worst Penthouse Letter to ever be written.  Keep in mind that we never had sex.  We never kissed beyond a goodnight peck.  In fact, he even asked me on our second date if he could place his hand on the small of my back... which was just awkward.  Oddly too graphic (though not enticing in the least) to put here, I'll list the nuggets you should glean from the email:

• His blood was flowing from a softball game in the rain.
• He envisioned coming to my apartment after the game and grabbing me to kiss me when I opened the door.
• He planned to lead me to my bed and apparently proceed to provide pleasure to the both of us.

From here he said, "Anyway!  So yesterday I had a great day.  I took five students to a [conference]."  Abrupt much?  Then I got the details of the school outing.  Of course I did not respond.

A month later after a handful of play-by-play emails that went unanswered, I got another "naughty" email.  This one more graphic and somehow more laughable than the last.  Bullets again to keep it under control, gentle readers:

• Another game resulted in "softball energy"
• He would come to my place and start kissing me until our tongues were "snaking around"... (I wish I were making this up)
• He would then press me up against him so I could feel the stiffness in his "sweatpants"... really, sir?  Sweatpants?  I don't care who you are, sweatpants are not sexy despite what The Fashionista thinks.  Especially because I'm picturing this:

Maybe I'd feel differently if I went all Top Gun in my mind and pictured this:

Now I just want to watch that volleyball scene and listen to Kenny Loggins...

• He then would proceed to "place his hands on [my] shoulders with just enough pressure" that I understood where he wanted me to go.
• He continued on, but I won't sicken you with more... just take my word for it, it's something else.

He ended this email with "Sounds wonderful, huh?  Email or text me if you want me to stop by."  This time I responded.  "I'm not looking for any semblance of a fuck buddy."  Harvard, "Neither am I.  I was just writing a little sexy scenario."

Three months later I still get a few emails and an occasional text letting me know what he's up to.  It's become a bit of a game with my friends - The Suzz being the ringleader.  So, to you, Harvard Persistence, thank you for hours of entertainment for me and my friends.  We've pored over your inanity on road trips, park outings, and while imbibing margaritas.  Please let them keep coming.  But don't expect a response. 

The Unconvertible Muscle

When The Unconvertible Muscle contacted me on match.com last week, I was intrigued.  His message was witty asking where I found a statue of George W. Bush to pose with.  In actuality I have a picture posted of me “dancing” with this statue of Kevin White outside Boston’s Faneuil Hall.

His profile was funny too.  And his pics… well, they were muscle-y.  While I’m not normally attracted to the body-builder type, I recognize that I’m not blind, and this dude was good-looking.  We emailed back and forth for a couple of days.  I wondered if he was ever going to take a step and ask me out.  When he finally asked for my number, I knew we were making progress, and I was excited to dive into this portion of my dating experiment.

We texted back and forth and he was perplexed at the fact that my schedule is crazy.  It’s interesting – when you’re “fake-dating” (as I’ve taken to calling it), priorities lie with work, friends, summer sun, and the boys you’re actually into in real life outside of the blogosphere.  To cancel happy hour with a friend from out of town would never occur to me anyway, but certainly not for The Unconvertible Muscle.  We finally found a night that worked for both of us, picked a location, and were all set.  Drinks in my hood.

The morning of the date I we had a text-convo that read something like this:

“I can’t lie.  I had a match date from hell last night and now I’m nervous.  Let’s just say she was different in person (read: mushy large).”  Really?  You’re just going to say that to the girl you’re trying to woo, sir?  My response: “Well, we can’t all be supermodels.  Don’t be nervous.  My smile makes up for my 300 pounds, limp, and lazy eye.”  I happen not to sport any of those, but I was trying to shame him in some sort of sarcastic way.  It didn’t read though.  He just thought I was even funnier… fail.

As I left the ATM (I always take cash on a date so they don’t have to see my full name on my credit card in case I choose not to divulge it… lesson learned from The Suzz that google-stalking is EXTRAORDINARILY easy), my phone rang.

“Hello,” in my best chipper awesome-girl voice.

“Eh, uh, so where is this place?” in his best Queens-lifer voice.

“31^st Street under the subway at the 30^th Avenue stop”

“Hmm.  I don’t do trains, and I can’t find parking”

“Who drives in NYC?”

“I gotta have my car, babe.  So where is it?"

"31^st Street under the subway at 30^th Avenue” (note the repeat)

Clearly driving and trying to navigate an area of Queens not exactly known for its extensive parking options, he continued to get me to provide directions.  This was not going well.  I approached the bar and found an empty meter spot directly out front.  I told him I’d hold it for him.  He rounded the corner in a navy blue, super shiny Lexus convertible.

Let’s be clear.  Cars don’t impress me.  I’m a New Yorker.  We take the subway.  We take buses.  We hail cabs.  We occasionally take the LIRR or Metro-North.  And some of us have Zipcar memberships for apple-picking and Target trips.  If you do have a car, it’s because you need it for work, you never got around to selling it when you moved here because it was already paid off, or you live in a remote part of the city where the trains are hellacious on weekends.  Ok.  Maybe I don’t really feel that way.  And maybe part of me actually wants a car of my own sometimes.  Maybe with a non-toolbag I wouldn’t think twice about his sporty little ride.

He exited the car.

He’s shorter than he said.  He’s older than he said.  He’s a C-cup.  He didn’t know how/what to order because this pub doesn’t serve Budweiser (I’m serious).  He’s wearing a shirt reminiscent of this:

Also though… he’s really nice.  He’s really funny.  And he’s totally diggin’ me.  He thinks I’m pretty.  He thinks I’m funny.  He thinks I’m smart.

As we continued our conversation (which is surprisingly engaging) I realized he’s in it to win it.  This guy actually wants a relationship.  He wants a match (imagine that coming from match.com).  I’m so unfamiliar with guys who aren’t just looking for a good time (sexual or otherwise), that this threw me.  The conversation got deeper, and then like that he blew it.

“So with your gay guy friends do you ever try to convert them straight?”

Syntax error.  Is he being funny here??  Or is he just that ignorant?

“Well, it doesn’t exactly work that way.  If they’re gay, they aren’t convertible."

“Ehhhhn… I’m not convinced of that.  I think at least half the time it’s environmental or a choice."

My ears redden, “I give people the benefit of the doubt a lot, but you’re just dead wrong on this."

He went on to tell me how he only has one gay friend, he doesn’t believe homosexuals are more than maybe 1% of the population, and that I could probably convert one if I wanted to.  I tried to argue for a hot second, and then I realized he’s probably the most unconvertible one of all.  He excused himself to the men’s room and went in for a kiss.  I politely dodged it which he took as me being coy or something else silly girls do.

The check came, and I pulled out my wallet.  He’s instantly offended.  He thinks I think he can’t afford it.  Whatever, dude.  I always offer to pay.  I don’t need to owe anyone anything after a first date.  Also, it’s just the nice thing to do.  I’d like to make the same as a man at work, I’d like my vote to count the same as a man’s, I’d like to be taken as seriously, and in turn, I can pay my equal part for our drinks without expecting more.  I’m also human, and I’m flattered that you’d like to pay.  So he did.

Before we parted ways he said, “So when can I see you again?”  Screeching halt.  While I appreciated the enthusiasm, being put on the spot has never been my favorite thing.  I instantly turned into some sort of pretentious she-devil, “Let me check my calendar and I’ll get back to you.”  Who says that?!  Apparently this girl when backed into a corner.  And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if maybe I DID want to see him again.  Having attention lavished on you by a completely attractive, fit, moderately wealthy (I know this because he told me his salary… did I fail to mention that above?), independent guy is never a bad thing.

His response to my pretention, “Listen.  Anything is possible if you want it badly enough.  Change your plans for Friday night.  I’ll pick you up at 8.”  Pick me up?  Do I need to remind him again where we live?  We meet.  We don’t pick up in our cars for second dates… unless we like the guy.  Which at this point, I’m guessing I don’t.

To The Unconvertible Muscle, thank you for giving me a different perspective.  For writing.  For life.  Everything is a learning experience, and I now know that I don’t like guys who flaunt.  I don’t like guys who actually believe homosexuality is a choice.  And I don’t like guys who make fun of their dates from the night before to someone they haven’t even met.  But thank you for the attention, the two drinks, and the laughs while watching the All-Star Game.

Potential Investment

Need a way out of a rambling idiot in a bar?  Looking for a quick escape from a bad first date?

Try carrying these.

Trial on the Interweb

I'm no stranger to the world of online dating, but after doing some research I finding I'm clearly out of the loop.  I was aware of pay sites to find dates, free sites to meet people, and even sites to find hookups.  But I had no idea just how many there are, nonetheless how many there are that are specific to certain groups - and not just those specific to religion, cultural, and sexuality.  There are dating websites for Trekkies, ugly people, cougars, STD-positives, pot smokers, and even terminally ill people.

To get an insight in the world of online dating, I'll be signing up on some sites.  I'm going to pick a couple of free ones and one pay one.  For the freebies, I'm leaning toward one generic (Plenty of Fish or OKCupid) and one themed site (Christian Mingles, J-Date, or Geek 2 Geek).  After careful consideration, I've decided to make this as honest as possible.  I'm not going for an acting exercise or a way to hone some sort of non-existent lying fetish.  So I'll steer away from lesbian sites or anything requesting specifically outside my ethnicity.

If you have suggestions for me, feel free to comment or send me a message here.

Below are a few for your viewing pleasure.  Did you know how many there were??  Do you have any horror or success stories from online dating??