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??

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.