The Rugby Player

My first marathon date was experienced with a broad, cocky, beer-guzzling funnyman.  He warned me on the phone when we made plans for the date (and subsequently talked for hours as though we were in junior high) that he would be kissing me before the date even began. 

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I want to.  I know you want me to.  And then we can have a good date without worrying about the whole kissing thing at the end."

Something different.  Someone who didn't follow rules.  A guy who took charge, made a plan, and didn't take no for an answer.  We decided the date would be January 1st.  If things worked out, we'd be able to look back fondly on how our relationship and 2010 started.  If things went poorly, the year could only get better, right?

I remember I wore a mini skirt, sweater, cowboy boots, and a red ski jacket.  He smiled as I approached.  And then, as promised, he in his 6'4" solidity took me and kissed me.  A wonderful kiss.  I nearly popped my booted foot.

Eight hours and too many beers for him to drive back to Long Island later, I offered my couch to him so the date didn't have to come to a halt ending with him sleeping in his car.  We stayed out three more hours laughing, talking, and occasionally sneaking a kiss or five.  He commented on his love for my red jacket - subtle yet forcing me to be the center of attention in that crowded bar.  Back at my apartment after closing all the establishments in the area of the city that never sleeps, I fitted him on the same couch he would come be very comfortable on.  The next morning we got up, and I tried my hand at breakfast.  He was nice about my atrocity and offered to cook me dinner later in the week at his place.  We watched a movie, did a little cuddling, and eventually decided to end the date on a high rather than get sick of each other over dinner.

Over the next few weeks and months, we were in touch most days and saw each other a couple times a week.  We watched much of the final season of "Lost" together discussing the intricacies of the conspiracy theories.  He spent many weekends upstate playing rugby, but we grew closer and closer.  We talked about meeting each other's families and were excited to introduce one another to the friends - though we were taking things at a good pace.  The physical chemistry between the two of us was absolutely off the charts.  Never before or since have I been so drawn to or excited by a man.  

Our relationship was fun.  It was intelligent.  It was close but not next door.  We were on the same page on so many levels.  And we started to feel.  I started to feel.  For the first time these feelings didn't push me to run to France or Atlantic City or to throw my phone off the GWB (a recurring threat of mine when people get too close too fast for my comfort level).

One of his rugby weekends ended with a phone call: "We have to talk."  Silly me, I thought people only said that in movies.  He had run into his 22-year-old ex -- the one who he broke up with because she was in college and moved into his apartment without asking after being kicked out of the dorm and disowned by her parents for being a pothead and all-around mess.  He guessed he wasn't as over her as he thought, and I had no interest in competing with any of that.  Though Mr. Rugby wanted me to.  He wanted me to fight for my man.  He wanted me to tell him how much better I was.  Unfortunately, that's not my style.

A month later he asked me for another date.  We went to the same bar where we ended New Year's Day.  He told me he quit his job, cashed in his 401k, and would be heading to Europe to backpack and find himself.  He begged me to go with him.  I was taken aback.  I love to run away too.  I love Europe as well.  And I know we'd have a blast running away from it all.  But I also was not his 22-year-old girl.  I had responsibilities that I couldn't up and leave on a whim... certainly not for a man.

He went to Europe at the end of August.  He sent me emails and texts regularly.  He kept me abreast of his schedule and never stopped asking me to come join him.  "Even for a week?" he'd ask.  I'd remind him that he had dumped me for an ex.  I'd tell him I couldn't run off in a flurry of emotions and lust for a guy who was trying to find himself.  He said he understood, but he never stopped his attempts at getting me to go over.

And I never stopped being torn.  I would tell The Constant of my dilemma.  He even offered once to pay for the flight.  The Suzz, however, reminded me of the hastiness of flying off to Europe for a boy.  They were the cartoonish devil and angel on my shoulders though I'm not sure which was which.  I blamed my pocketbook and stayed in the comforts of NYC.

Earlier this year The Rugby Player called me.  I got fluttery when his named popped up but let it go to voicemail.  When I called him back, we stepped into conversation as though no time had passed.  We talked about Europe.  We talked about the intense connection we had shared.  I went out on a limb...

"When can we get together?  I miss you."

"I miss you too.  So much.  But I'm seeing someone."

My heart sank.  I had no words.

"Actually that's part of the reason I called you.  She's older and has kids.  I often feel like I'm playing the babysitter.  It's very real, and it makes me miss the simple fun I had with you."

"So you called because I'm the fun?"

"I mean... I guess?  It's just that I could always be myself with you.  You never pressed for too much too fast.  You were never needy.  You were the perfect girl to date.  You're just so fun."

That was the last time we talked.  He asked if we could still be friends.  I told him I had plenty of friends.  I got off the phone and cried.

Earlier tonight I picked up my laundry to find they had switched detergent.  It smelled of The Rugby Player.  I was instantly taken back to his little apartment on Long Island, cuddled up to his beefy arms watching "Lost" and "A Bronx Tale," eating gravy and Long John Silver's.  And I smiled.

I will always wonder how different things would be had I hopped a flight to Prague.

The Google Pothead

Believe it or not, this professional dater was once in a long-term relationship.  Granted, it was not your typical relationship, and I'm even in the process of writing a book about my experiences with this fantastic fella.  However, that is not a nostalgic walk down memory lane you get tonight.  Save your pennies and buy the book when it comes out... it's sure to keep you more than entertained.

After my seven-year relationship turned into more of a friendship, I spent two years dating me and only me.  It was a great time of exploration and discovery, and it was also a time of occasional loneliness.  When I started thinking it was high-time I get back out in the dating world, I was completely overwhelmed.

Enter The Google Pothead.

He was one of the original founders of Google.  Born and raised right in the Lower Eastside, he had moved back from California when the famous search engine began taking off.  He was bought out and, needless to say, was older and insanely wealthy.  He was independent, attractive, and knew exactly what he wanted - out of a meal, out of an evening, out of a girl, and out of life.  Two years of being single and not dating led me to know some specifics of what I wanted as well.  And I wasn't afraid to tell him...

I wanted to find a man who didn't need my paycheck.  One who also didn't need me to cook for him, make decisions for him, or meet his family.  I wanted someone to take me out and make me feel girly, to show me a side of New York I hadn't seen yet.  I wanted someone who didn't need me to make a commitment but wasn't interested in shuffling me into his mix of twenty other women.  I was seeking someone who didn't need to meet my friends, know too much about my career, or pry into the depths of my childhood or previous relationship.  And finally in the harsh realization of my nearly three-year, self-imposed celibacy, I wanted someone I could eventually feel comfortable with breaking out of my shell and dipping my toes into what Carrie Bradshaw had shown me about how to live the fabulous single girl's life in NYC.

Not exactly a short order, right?  Well, The Google Pothead fit the bill beautifully.  He didn't balk at my directness.  In fact on our first date as I sat there watching him nurse his expensive bourbon, I felt completely adult for the first time in my life.  If that was all I got out of my time with him, it would have been worth it.

Luckily I got more.  We went on several dates, and he was patient with me.  He never pushed me to do anything I didn't want in the same way he never allowed me to pay for a single thing, open a single door, or even make a single plan.  For the first foray, this - no, he was exactly what I needed.  A month or so went by filled with delicious meals, surprise lunch dates, and lots of laughs.  And one night I asked him if we could have dinner near his place.  I did all the things a single girl is supposed to do when impending coitus is on the horizon... and I showed up looking super hot if I do say so myself.

As did he.

At the end of the evening (having no idea how to behave with a man I'd known for such a short time much less in a less than puritanical way), Mr. Google returned from the other bedroom with a contraption I hadn't seen since the "Cheech and Chong" movies I used to sneakily watch after my parents went to bed.  While talking he stuffed it with lawn clippings and pulled out a lighter.  He then passed it to me.

"I've never done that."
Surprised for the first time since we'd been seeing each other, "Oh.  Well, I smoke a lot of pot.  I hope that's ok."

Who knew of all the pseudo-demands I'd made, the commitment-phobia I'd exhibited, and fun times we'd spent together, that our biggest missed connection would involve marijuana?  I went with the flow while refraining from toking up, and left to go home just as his eyes glassed over to the point of near-irritation.

The Google Pothead and I continued our tryst for several weeks before it waned into a whisper of a memory.  I became more and more aware of things I needed and things that weren't as important as I thought they were.  This would be the biggest learning experience of my dating career, and I was sponging every ounce of it up.

Over the past few years we've tried to get together a few times to see if we can be friends.  Once we even went on a for reals kind of date.  We are still Facebook friends and even once ran into each other while we were on separate (and less interesting) dates, but I came to the conclusion awhile ago that The Google Pothead was for a season.  Every time I see him, I quickly go to back to the place I was when we met.  A vulnerable, wide-eyed, confused, unsure girl looking for a temporary connection to make me feel alive.  While I cherish what he was for me and will never regret any of my time on the Lower Eastside eating expensive food, dodging the contact highs, and playfully arguing over completely inane political values, The Google Pothead and I will never be.

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.

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 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 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.