Not the One

The spring before I graduated college, I submitted my directing resume to a whole bunch of companies in hopes to find a production to work on. I didn’t get any projects out of it, but of course I got a date out of it.

The Cop Out

This was the first time I went on a date with someone I never met before. It was the summer after college and I was excited to go out on the town for a few drinks like a real person.

I wasn’t sure what to do to set up the date, so I let him pick the place, time, whatnot. I had flashbacks to days where people who went on blind dates would say something like, “I’ll be the one with the carnation.”

These were somebody else’s flashbacks.

Not really telling anyone else where I was going, I met up with Mike at a small divey joint off a union square. A+ location. There was a back lot with Christmas lights and I am sure he’s taken girls there before.

It’s okay; I take dates there now.

The date goes really well. But in all honestly, I drank a bunch so I’m not sure how well it went.  We drank Sam Adams and talked about Harry Potter. That’s a good date, right?

We made out and I caught my Cinderella Bus home.

That summer was pretty crazy so I lost touch with Mike for months.

In November I log onto Facebook to a message:

Hey, so, I was just thinking, can you stop being a wuss and come go on a date with me? I mean come on Khawk, you know you want to.

I was severely impressed by this message sent in morning time (aka he prob wasn’t drunk). I had no idea what to say at first so I let my thoughts simmer to think of a deserving response. Of course I’d go on a date with him!

A few hours later I log back onto this:

ha, sorry, dont pay attention to me i’m an idiot

WHAT A DISAPPOINT. Didn’t even use the shift key.

I didn’t message him back after that because…

Cop outs are never the one. 

The Internet

On a regular, every day basis, I wish I could quit OKStupid.

I haven’t met anyone off it, since that last encounter, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t toyed with the idea. I came to a very close call this weekend.

I was messaged early in the week by a fellow named Phillip who lived in Union Square, liked to cook, and looked like a super model. He told me to facebook him and I told him I didn’t mix the two. This doesn’t mean I didn’t stalk the crap out of him.

Facebook is really good for minimizing that 6 degree of separation thing. I’m pretty sure thanks to modern technology it’s now a one degree separation. He was friends with a friend of mine who isn’t known for being a creep. That was a plus.

The big minus was the copious amounts of recent-ex-girlfriend pictures. The pictures isn’t what I thought were weird, it was just weird how open he was with sharing them right off the bat, before meeting someone off of OKCupid.

But that isn’t the point.

Saturday night comes along and he asks me to get a drink with him. I ask him where, he says he’s open, I ask him when, and he says he’s open too. I stop responding for 10 minutes and log back on to roughly ten messages from him.

They are all pretty much of accusing me of not wanting to hang out with him, and to let him know if I’m not interested. I told him my phone was acting weird, and unembarrassed (because he should be) by his outburst into my inbox, he sends me his cell phone number (again).

Instead of hanging out with this guy, I rocked out with a band drunk and solo to Bohemian Rhapsody in Washington Square Park.

I guess that night I wasn’t up to rounding up a really good story by meeting him in person. But something tells me I wouldn’t be able to write about that crazy from hiding.

Okay, I get it, I’m harsh. Whatever. Sometimes I don’t feel like finding the one.

This one time I gave the OKCupid Locals App a try….

It all started Saturday night, when I realized that no one was coming out to celebrate my apprenticeship ending. I had a phone filled with “Sorry I can’t come out tonight” and a craving for shenanigans.

After spending a good hour in Madison Square Park texting friends, I decided to do what I wanted to do. Which was to go to my fav Irish Pub on St. Marks and have a Blue Moon.

I arrive shortly after only to find they no longer carry Blue Moon. I settle for Stella. My night seems over before it starts so I turn on my “locals” broadcast and let the freaks roll.

Long story short, I get in contact with a guy name Joe and invite him to text message me if he wants to meet up. He says he’s from out of town and looking for fun. I’m weary of this, but am looking to make my night spontaneous so… let’s see how this goes.

I’m surprised moments later when I find a text in my phone from Joe claiming he’s on St. Marks. Weird. I’m enjoying my solo Stella, and the small talk with the Bar Keep. I contemplate taking this as no more than an ego boost. Then the old guy next to me leans over and puts his phone in my face.

“I’m looking for new Facebook friends…”

Not sure what to say. I throw out, “Oh, I don’t have Facebook….”

He goes “Really?”

I nod.

He goes “Worst opening line ever…”

I nod.

I open my phone, texting Joe back “I’m at so-and-so between the college students doing car bombs and the 45 year old guy who wants me to be his facebook friend.”

Not more than ten minutes go by and I’m introduced to Joe who is just really chatty, nervous or just did coke at the previous bar. We’ll never know, but he’s hella attractive.

Joe and I proceed to have a GREAT TIME. I laugh until I cry. He’s actually probably the best story teller I’ve been on a date on with. I spend less time talking and more time drinking. I’m suddenly drunk off of three beers and then the fourth is on the house and….

Yes, I made out at the bar with Joe. And just so you know, I’ve made out at this bar with “The Dealbreaker” too. Everyone has his or her hotspots/moves.

While making out I totally decided his fake name would be “Joe” too. This was after he stopped to tell me I was a great kisser… Like I had never heard that one before!

He walks me to Broadway so I can catch a cab and he kisses me goodnight. He is a good foot taller than me and our teeth hit twice.

I walk home in the rain. I still had a good time.

But I’ve learned that dating is like exercising any muscle. The more you do, the better you are. And the less likely you are to expect to hear from them ever again. Even if you have a great time.

At least I know what I like now.

But that doesn’t make Joe the one.

This summer I learned that there is something worse than a bad date. Okay dates. This particular blog entry has been brought to you by (what else) OK Cupid.

Frank was cute. Frank seemed fun. Frank had a lot of money. What could go wrong? Nothing,  is what! He picked the place, time and menu. Because, listen, I already know I can control a situation. I’m looking for someone who can control my situation. He picks a rooftop bar, nearby my job and after work.  Before I got there he scored points on being courteous to my schedule and location.

First of all, one drink cost more than my entire date with what’s-his-face. You can fill in “what’s his face” with any one of my previously mentioned dates. He told me “not to worry about the price” and let me pick. I let [made] him pick and they were extremely tasty and $17. With the combination of a rooftop bar and expensive drinks, my guess he was trying to impress me. But, just like that Ke$ha song, “I don’t need you and your brand new benz, bla la la la da…”

This is a girl who likes to go to dive bars on dates you’re trying to impress here.

The bottom line is how much did we click? We didn’t.

I’m pretty sure I scared the shit out of Financier Frank. I swear when I moved closer to him he flinched. This was all before I told him I’d been arrested. Which I did, of course. If you can’t take that story from my past, you probably couldn’t harness the hawk.

We talked about books, music, nothing that stands out in particular. I actually have no recollection of anything that we talked about. I laughed three times. Yes, I counted!

He walked me to my train and we had an obligatory hug goodnight and went on to our respective Friday nights. I think this was the second date I’ve ever been on that didn’t end in tongue knitting.

Frank was a perfect gentlemen. From the location to the proper goodbye everything was formulated to be the perfect date. Nothing bad, but then again nothing interesting happened either. No big whoops to write about, no deal breakers. Sometimes, some people just aren’t the one.

Frank wasn’t.

deal breaker

Part of Speech:   n

Definition:   any issue or factor that is significant enough to terminate a negotiation, esp. in business orpolitics

Example:   The proposed financing between the prospective investor and the entrepreneur could be a dealbreaker.

As the weather got (slightly) warmer, I concluded that it was time to give OKCupid one last try. This time, not having the weather as an excuse, I promised myself I’d actually go on dates. A week in, I kept that promise and that’s how I met Steve.

Advice to you e-daters out there: be specific about your meeting spot. Steve and I spent the first half hour of our date assuming that we had been stood up by the other. Within two sentences of meeting Steve, I knew he was from the west coast… but I asked where he was from anyway. There is nothing more annoying than a surfer accent in the big city. UNLESS that person was originally from Chicago and that surfer-like Cali drawl was forced. Which, in Steve’s case, it was.

Anyway, he decided to eat and I wasn’t very hungry(he told me he would get me coffee). So I did the #1 thing I hate most on a date: Talked nonstop about myself for 30+ minutes. I’m very good at it by now. It seems that I’m so intimidating to men that they’re afraid to try to steer a conversation with me.

Word to the not-so-brilliant: I hate to talk nonstop and I’m waiting for that guy to come along and say “hey, aren’t you tired of talking about yourself?” Or at least someone that’s willing to help mold a conversation. I’m waiting for a date hi-jacker. But nope, Steve orders a chicken salad and what kind of man gets a salad on a date? I thought that was taboo even for girls!! He even allowed me to pay for the check. The place was cash only, but he should have known that.

I was ready to go home. Steve wasn’t. I was picking up on the fact that he was actually enjoying his date (free meal) and was probably going to try and kiss me at some point. Beer was the necessary addition to the equation so I dragged him to my favorite bar. One Blue Moon (on him) later, we were making out.

With alcohol in your system, you could make out with the pool table and it would be a tantalizing experience. It would only be until you realize they’re horrible at conversation and even worse at telling stories that you’d loose interest. That was exactly how it was kissing Steve.

Now, usually when alcohol is involved with a date I chalk up the fun to the booze and never see the guy again….

Steve saunters in 45 minutes late for date 2! He had no idea that the date was a bust before he even got there. We proceeded to a restaurant where he was buying me dinner to “make up” for our catastrophic first.

Steve breaks it to me that he “just ate” when we get to the restaurant… What a cheapo! So not only did I wait, starving for 45 minutes, but I find out what he was doing with all that extra time!

It’s when he orders the hummus that I really want to kill myself. Listen, folks, hummus is a commitment food! Kissing someone after they had it is something you do when you are A. DRUNK or B. IN LOVE. I was NONE OF THE ABOVE so I held my breath and almost screamed when he muttered “C’mere” leaning over, mouth gaping, and clamping over mine for god knows how long.

The sudden realization of Steve’s resemblance to an ex combined with the hummus kisses combined with the general repulsion against myself for giving him a second chance, urged me to get out of there. But how?

The truth shall set you free.

He asked me “what do you want to do now?” and I just simply replied “Sleep.”

This didn’t deter or dishearten him at all because he was still very generous with his hummus kisses. Poor kid will never see me again.

What did we learn?

Be specific

Can the fake accent, please.

Don’t be tardy! Seriously! No more than 5 minutes!

Conversation is key! Personality is a plus!

NO HUMMUS

NO HUMMUS

Yes, that needed to be mentioned twice.

All reasons why Steve was not the one.

This post is a little extra extra because I owe you.

The Irishmen

I’m 50% Scottish, 25% Italian and 25% Irish. Being half Scottish is a pretty new concept since I was raised eating cornbeef on St Pattys and fish on Christmas Eve. My dad is a bit of a drinker, so it was a bit of a shock when I found out he wasn’t the least bit Irish. Anyway…

It’s always good to pay tribute to your roots.

For me, a young girl in her early twenties, I have the tendency to drift in and out of Irish Pubs.  Not too long ago, I had gone to this place on St Marks that I adore, and made out with a young Irishman visiting from Ireland. I went home with a bruised lip and a story that ended with: “And then I made out with…” A long pause. “What’s his name again?”

This particular instance happened last night. My Best Pal Chloe and I decided to stay local and check out a place in Queens. The place we chose had no more than twelve people at the bar, all middle-aged, and Aerosmiths “Crazy” was blaring from the small DJ stand in the corner(complete with own middle-aged dj).

We’re barely holding in our laughter when Chloe turns to me and says, “This is where trapped married men hang out when their wives go, ‘You can go to the bar.’” She orders a Tequila Sunrise. The bartender, a lovely Irish lady with a thick accent, explains that she’s never heard of one of those before.

After Chloe teaches the bartender a new drink and I get my Blue Moon, we take a seat at a stool across from the main bar. It’s in the shape of a guitar and has a banjo on display inside of it, which can be seen through a dusty window. We’re halfway through our drinks and conversation when Chloe decides we’re safe from being hit on. Unfortunately she voices this out loud and minutes later we’re approached by this middle aged Irish bloke with an empty Amstel in hand 

We learn his name is Rory and he’s there with his pal Barbie (accent/alcohol barrier) but his friend is shy.  We have small talk. 

“So where yeh from?” He gestures his bottle towards her.

“Boston,” she smiles and we exchange looks.

 “Where yeh livin’ now?”

“I live around here.” Please Chloe try to be vague. I use all my might to send her psychic messages but I’m afraid they won’t work.

“Oh yea?”

“Yea, right around the corner.” She’s smiling and bobbing and thoroughly enjoying the hilarity of the situation but I can’t hold back.

I interject with, “Why don’t you give him your keys, Chloe?”

Luckily no one took this as a bitchy comment and we all laughed. Pretty soon his friend Barbie (Dereck) comes over and Dereck starts chatting her up while Rory grabs us some drinks (Score!).

A few hours go by, we’ve accepted the conversation that Rory interrupted is long gone. We learn Dereck is actually 29 and Rory is 32 – or 34 or something. We learn Rory is coked out and drunk. We also quickly learn that he fancies me.

First we try to tell them that Chloe and I were on a blind date. That had them going for a little bit, until guilt drove Chloe into telling the truth. Luckily, chatting with drunk people gives you second chances with things like that. If your lie doesn’t work, you can try a new one ten minutes later and it’s like the first lie never happened. The whole thing is a bit like traveling through time if you think about it.

The lie that ends up working a little bit is my made-up boyfriend that lives in Williamsburg whom I’m probably going to marry. This left Rory acting awkward each time I told this story, so he usually went into this conversation: 

“So sorry, but what’s your friends name?” 

“Chloe.” 

“Colleen?”

“Chlo-ee.”

“Oh, Colleen.” 

“No, Chloe.”

“Colleen!”

“Sure, Colleen.”

As the night came to a close I casually bring up that guy I met on St. Marks that night and that Irishmen are bad kissers. Dereck takes this as a challege, letting his competitive streak takeover. Directly over Chloe, he jumps up in defensive pose shouting, “I’ll prove you wrong! Makeout with me right now!”

I thought about it. I thought of you guys and this blog. It would be just like shaking hands. I’d probably be right, he would be a terrible kisser. I also thought about the politics of the situation. Rory was right there and he hasn’t been told about my Williamsburg fiance recently. I politely decline.

So did Chloe, when he sat down after his outburst and asked for her number.  

That’s why Rory wasn’t the one for me, and Dereck wasn’t the… some other number for Chloe.

After realizing that creating this blog at the start of winter was bad timing (who goes out in the cold?), I decided to take a dip in the online dating pool. The logic was I might a. go on some pretty interesting dates or b. might meet someone worth liking. After all, I was always down for the occasional introvert.

Within the first few times of logging in, I should have taken heed and turned around. At least 1 out of every 5 “match” was someone I knew already, dated before or knew how they kissed. The messages I received were all pretty much the same and I grew used to ignoring them. But it was a good time-killer and I was way too curious of the possibilities.

I got into a few conversations, but nothing substantial or nothing that lead to actually meeting the person.  I thought of deleting my account many times, but it had embedded itself into my daily e-routine (e-mail, facebook, okcupid)… I mean, it had an iPhone app!

Anyway, weeks went by and I felt the pressure to blog something. I didn’t want to update a past experience anymore than I wanted to leave the house to go on a date. So after I flaked out on meeting some stranger from another website (maybe that will be a later blog), I update Not the One  with the “OKCupid Hitlist.”

I’ll be honest – the majority of what I posted were guys that sent me dumb messages. I thought of the post as filler. I skimmed through my messages and plucked profile pictures, throwing them on my blog.

I stop at one particular one and weighed the morality of putting it up. This particular user, BFreedman, hadn’t said anything dumb at all. We actually had a pretty decent conversation, and I found him to be cute, too. I needed a post so I slapped his picture in with the lot and published.

The morning after Christmas I receive a message from BFreedman politely asking me to remove his picture from my blog. I do so in haste, feeling like a jerk and rip my hand out of the cookie jar. Of course the only picture I put up to elongate my post is the one that’s discovered. He was one of the first people featured here that actually did nothing wrong, and for all I know, had nothing wrong with him. While it is moderately creepy that he found it so fast, it really is not abnormal to google/search someone you do not know in person.

Plus, finding your picture on a stranger’s blog is significantly creepier.

Within 20 minutes of the first message, his account is deleted and I’m left hanging out in a pile of guilt. After consideration I decide I should do the same.

When I sign in for the last time I am greeted by the following message:

wow  I gotta say that ur drop dead gorgeous!! heyy have you ever had a fantasy of making love to a complete stranger??? J im justin plus I have a HUGE 5.5in —— u know what!!! lol

Clicking “Delete Account” never felt so O.K.

So… that’s why OKCupid didn’t help me find The One.