Friday, December 28, 2012

HOs for the Holidays

I've never been one for group sex because my mom occasionally reads my blog. I suppose I understand its allure should everyone involved be forced to wear paper bags over their heads, but I'm a middle child and a bit of an attention whore (not that it's obvious) - I'd be terrible with all of that sharing. The same can be said for group text.

We've all, at one time or another, sent or received mass texts. Often, these texts are conveying plans or delivering necessary stories to a group specific to the situation.  Too often, these texts are holiday well wishes from lackadaisical "friends" who fail at any attempt to hide their indifference toward you (I reserve that for family). They send out the generic "Merry Christmas!" or "Happy New Year!" text, and don't mind that any response to their message will generate unwanted reply-alls. While annoying, these people aren't the worst of them. 

Fortunately, I make these "worst of them" friends easily (and all-too-frequently). This collection of people are the group messengers who send seemingly specific messages and forget (or are too incompetent to realize) that anyone with an iPhone can see each person included on the message. I provide evidence of such people:

The first dunce in question (screenshot at right) sent a "hey stranger" text to me and two other (assumingly) girls (best Christmas present ever). While I can understand you might have more than one "stranger" in your life, it may be viewed as poor taste to let them all know collectively that your wish is to see them before the new year. Ladies and gentlemen, how not to get back into a girl's pants.

Does the smiley face bring light to the situation? No, because this particular smiley is even more apathetic than the questionable group inclusion - could he not have troubled himself to include a sweet yellow-circle-face? Perhaps the one with heart-eyes? I think I could've gotten past some of his negligence had he put forth a bit more effort in the smiley game. 

Girl One was quick to call out this no-excuse-because-you-have-an-iPhone-and-should-realize-the-grave-mistake-you-made idiot with a  response of "Group message?" Good work Girl One, but your swift reply ruined my chance to respond, "Hey stranger and other strangers, when is everyone free to get together before the new year?" Instead, I had to go with " (thumbs up emoticon)," reflecting my appreciation of Girl One's comeback. Ugh, so inferior. Girl Two was an hour late to the party with, "Who is this? lol" - she had an hour to come up with something more creative. In retrospect, I'm glad Girl One beat me to the punch. Had I elected to send my initial response, I could have been stuck hanging out with some witless dullard (I find enough of those at the bar as it is). 

Likely, the best part of this entire situation is the fact that he had the balls to call me (who calls people?) the next day. I assumed my "Hey stranger" greeting upon picking up would've directed the conversation appropriately (i.e. him owning up to his oversight), instead, he acted as if nothing happened. Maybe he thought I failed to recognize that it was a group chat since my only reply was an up-arrow followed by a superthumbs up? So, did I call him out? Nope. Why shoot down a sure before-the-new-year thing? 

The second best Christmas gift I received came from Delsean (name unchanged because...well...because I can).  Delsean (pictured at left) and I had the pleasure of meeting this past November. I was elbowing my way to the bar (what else is new), and he was the only thing that stood between me and my life source an adult beverage.  He started talking to me and I let it happen because I was thirsty (and the whole attention whore thing). While waiting for my libation, he asked to see my phone, and like a child in need of a toy to distract them from bothering you, I handed it over. 

Between growing impatient waiting for the bartender to return and worrying about whether or not Delsean would take off with my phone, I exchanged forced conversation pleasantries with him.  He mentioned something about calling himself from my phone (great), I smiled my preprogrammed smile, my drink came, and I was off to another section of the bar.

Later that night, Delsean reminded me that he stole had my phone number with a "hey lovely" text - his signature apparently. He has texted me nearly every day since, with zero response from me. His text assault will be glorified in a post to come, but his Christmas text was much too exceptional not to share. His Christmas group text, that is. 

Delsean chose his favorite ten girls (Yay, I was included!), and sent out his sweetly sincere holiday text.  I get it. I completely understand - he wanted to streamline his holiday wishes and not forget any of his HO, HO, HOs. 

Not only did he demand that I enjoy my holiday, he helped me do just that by including a suave seflie. Thanks for reminding me why I never respond to your texts, Delsean, and thanks for the awesome Christmas present.

Ah, the single life. Jealous?

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

12/12/12: You're Doing it Right

If you're reading this, it's likely you're not doing either of the following today:
  • Getting married
  • Having a baby
In that case, congratulations - you're doing 12/12/12 right (so as long as you're not standing in line to get "YOLO" tattooed on your body).

I get it - I understand why couples think it's a great idea to get married on a day like today.  I made quite the push last year to wed on 11/11/11, and I was fortunate enough to be turned down by every stranger I approached outside City Hall.  The thing is, couples getting married today are doing just that - getting married. The only marriage I would tolerate today is if it were that couple's 12th marriage. Now that's serendipity.

Many people marrying today are rushing it for the date. Marriage should never be comparable to sex with a stranger - it should never be rushed. The only activity we should habitually rush in life is liquor intake when running from life's problems into an ex. Marriage should be solicitously reflected upon in hopes that you mindfully consider backing out of it. Now, divorcing someone to celebrate 12/12/12 - that I can get on board with. Not that I think divorce is a celebratory occasion - who am I kidding - of course it is. You're breaking free of the chains one of you weren't entirely sure about in the first place. It's just too bad you didn't have the balls to follow through with your uncertainty on that unpropitious wedding day.  Additionally, today is a Wednesday - it's tacky to get married on a Wednesday (unless the reception speeches reference "hump day" numerous times). 

Having a baby today? There's nothing wrong with having a baby today, it's having a baby at all that troubles me. That requires something I hate more fervently than last call: selflessness. Yuck. Unless you're birthing this child for organ harvesting - oh, come on, not the vital ones - I'm not Satan.  I'm simply talking a kidney here, sliver of a liver there - things that could one day prolong your existence - those things are permissible. However, like marriage, organ-harvesting childbearing must be thoughtfully deliberated. Do you really want your matching-DNA-that-makes-for-the-perfect-organ-donation ruining the body you gave up food pizza for? Ruining the vagina you Kegeled tirelessly to keep favorable? More importantly, do you really want to give up your life as you've come to know it for a child that will grow to leave you for a mistake marriage of their own, for mistakes children of their own? Babies? Pass.

So, today, I raise my glass twelve times to you. Instead of partaking in some of life's worst greatest moments, you're drinking a dozen beers while diverting your attention from the movie Twelve by reading the novel Twelve with "The Twelve Days of Christmas" playing in the background, or you're drinking a bottle of Twelve Wine  thinking about what the Street Fighter character, Twelve would do to Steve Martin's disrespectful children in Cheaper by the Dozen.  I'll probably just watch twelve episodes of Sons of Anarchy, and buzz one out to Jax twelve times.  To each their own.

The only people that are doing today better than you are those partaking in the following:
  • Being born
  • Dying
Yes, the little shit-makers that are less than a day old are already exponentially better than you are.  Many of them will grow to accomplish great things, feats that you couldn't conjure up no matter the level your Adderall addiction spikes to.  More of them will grow to hate their mothers' 12/12/12 sacrifices completely as they perfect a1080 on that greased up pole hoping the few measly singles they scored don't drop out of the stringed cloth that has been delicately placed to hide the outbreak their Valtrex failed to subdue.  Keep it up 12/12/12 children.

I might add, that offing yourself to accomplish the latter activity, does not count - don't embarrass yourself by trying either.  Just think about how awkward the "R.I.P." posts on your Facebook page will be; no one wants your birthday reminder popping up postmortem.  Live for Facebook if for nothing else.

In summation, gentlemen, take those freshly shaved upper-lips of yours (as much as girls find pedophiles sexy, I'm glad Movember is over) and have a drink to celebrate not getting married to the girl that stopped giving you blow jobs after you put a ring on it; to celebrate not having a baby that you're not entirely sure is yours.  Ladies, take your questionable self-esteems and daddy-issue-riddled fashion choices out on the town to celebrate not sleeping with the same man for the rest of your life; to celebrate not worrying about society's standards of a quick baby-weight drop, not to mention that nipple chaffing situation.  Celebrate today like the asshole you are by doing some good solely to make you feel better about yourself.  Donate to Sandy Relief; donate to Big Brothers Big Sisters; donate to (read: like) me.  It's your best last-ditch effort to wake up on Jesus' birthday and find something other than a fat hairy old dude in red porking your mom coal under the Christmas tree.  And, not that you asked, but the only thing on my Christmas list is a pack of rechargeable batteries - apparently they don't last forever.

12/12/12 on my friends.  Twelve the shit out of today.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

What to Expect When You're Ex-Sexting

You read the title of this post and you said to yourself, "Well, nothing good." This is precisely why you're reading and I'm writing. Great things spawn from sexts with an ex...as long as you're on the receiving end (awe, the receiving end). If you should decide to hop on the giving side (what with the holidays coming up and what not), make sure you take the necessary steps to ensure your anonymity: don't photograph your face or any other discernible features, don't send anything to someone you don't already have dirt on (e.g. nudie pics, tax records, etc.), and, most importantly, work your angles - there's nothing worse than an unflattering sext.

We live in an age that dislikes human contact to such extent that we now sex through text (the similar sounds alone warrant question - someone had to know what was coming - see what I did there?). Texting has become the origami-folded-written-on-wide-ruled-loose-leaf notes that once plagued our generation. Those notes contained our deepest secrets: love interests, recent indiscretions, and, more often than not, test answers.  Sure, we could draw sexually explicit pictures in notes, but they were disposed of as easily as virginity at that age, and the only boobs that were sent happened over a calculator (29004 times two anyone?). 

In today's world, notes are passed via text as are the explicit pictures - pictures that can last a lifetime.  It's always been said that a picture is worth a thousand words, and never has that been truer than the sextual intercourse that permeates our society today.  Gone are the days of notes and phone sex. At the sexting rate of today, phone sex might as well jump into bed with the transistor radio. Who needs someone detailing what they're currently doing with a turkey baster using sultry verbs and adjectives when they can simply snap a pic and send it through - insta-porn that doesn't cost you $9.99 (I suppose youporn.com is good for that as well).

I understand the appeal of sending a stranger that special someone a sensual picture of yourself to excite them...when they're on their way to see you (go down a waterslide that isn't wet and you'll see why foreplay is so important).  But, if you're just exchanging pics for the sake of exchanging pics, I'm sorry, but I'd rather buzz one out to a Google image search of Joe Manganiello than your amateur self-portrait.  Why make an already taxing situation more uncomfortable?

Ta-Daa!
The thing is, we can all agree sexting is a bit awkward, right?  I mean, take the gentleman in the photo, for instance.  Nothing says "sexy" like a dicture of you "ta-daa!"-ing your junk. Guys, if you're a frequent sexter, please learn from him - this dicture made it's way to every single one of my friends (I was lucky enough to be on the forwarding list - and, yeah, blurring was done upon receipt, so I got the full visual).  His "ta-daa!" stance coupled with that shit-eating grin dries me up faster than when I learned the opening of a New York City In-N-Out was merely an April Fools' Day Joke.  How is that sexy? I'd much prefer a picture of him getting ravaged from behind because at least there would be one manly figure in the picture.

Additionally, he made the worst mistake a sexter can possibly make - he included his face in the shot.  Everyone knows: never get involved in a land war in Asia, and don't include your face in nudie pics. Safe sexting is so very important.  Really, the only reason I blurred his face is because my friend paid me I don't need him suing me and the internets for his mistakes. If you're not going to cover your junk, cover your face. To remember this notion, I like to recall the words of Smokey the Bear: "Only you can prevent forest fires." Only, instead of "forest fires," we're talking "viral photos/your parent's embarrassment/dinosaurs from laughing." OK, so maybe not that last part, but I love dinosaurs. If he were a dinosaur, he'd be named douchebagasaurus and he'd be the lowest on the food chain - even mosquitoes could take him out. Sorry, I get a bit carried away when it comes to dinosaurs. I digress.

Let's face it, this dicture could've been worse. We could have been subjected to him taking his spirit fingers and wrapping them around his member - subtract a stupid smile and add the vinegar strokes expression (if you had to click that link to figure out what that meant, watch better quality TV...and try having sex with someone other than yourself). Actually, I might have preferred receiving an aggressive picture of that quality. At least I would've known that Ta-Daa! actually functions. I think Jesus might agree when I caution: take the word of a friend with a grain of salt - I can't simply assume that he actually knows how to use it just because my friend maintains they had a thriving sex life. 

Yup, he's a friend's ex, which only strengthens my initial hypothesis - sexting an ex is great. I mean, this is the best dicture in my arsenal (I've received my fair share of raging boner bombs - unsolicited, of course, mom). Again, great to be on the receiving end because, along with thirty other girls (and guys), I was able to laugh until I cried. You see, guys do stupid shit like this all too often, whereas girls consult their friends before sending a sexy picture. Sometimes girls even have those same friends snap it for them to ensure a quality angle (the only people who enjoy mirror shots are the same people you've blocked from your news feed).

In summation, understand that in addition to storing your photo to their yank bank memory, your ex will share it with his/her friends, even if only to brag. So, if you're OK with your picture getting around, then more power to you - sext away (but why not get paid for it a la Playboy?). However, I think good ol' Benji Franklin put it best when he said "Well done is better than well said." Nothing you could say (and no picture you could send) over text will ever be as good as what you can do in person...unless you're ugly - if that's the case, keep to kinky sexts and never send a naked picture - you will undoubtedly have acne-covered nether regions and the only people that don't mind seeing that are convicted felons.

Sext with caution, but forward damaging evidence in haste. 

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Bottoms Up

When you live in the city, you see your fair share of seedy waxing salons. You purchase the Groupon and the Living Social deals assuming they wouldn't support subpar facilities, only to discover the waxing room is a curtained-off section of a secondhand wig store. It takes a few tries before you find a location and an aesthetician you can trust. You have to make sure 1) it's a good wax that doesn't require another thirty minutes of at-home plucking, 2) she wears gloves, and 3) she doesn't judge any odd bruising that she might notice while you're spread-eagle on her table. Fortunately, I found such a place, and Olga has been nothing but great to me. She's quick, easy, and loves to talk - we have far too much in common.

Unfortunately, due to last minute scheduling and time constraints, I missed my appointment with good ol' Olgs last week, and had to settle for something much less familiar. I found and secured a quick appointment on Lifebooker, packed up my desk, and ran out of the office to make my last-minute vacay waxing appointment.

On the way, I passed a 16 Handles and figured it was a good sign, and, if needed, I would treat myself to some Birthday Cake froyo post hair removal.  As I got nearer to the salon entrance, I noticed their classy window decor: a busted neon sign haphazardly flashing "NAIl S." At first look, I thought the foot of the "L" was simply not lighting up, but, as I glanced a bit closer, I realized that they actually made the mistake of writing "N," "A," "I," and "S" all in uppercase while the poor lowly "L" had to resort to lowercase. This was going to be a treat.

I walked in and approached an empty counter; I was the only one in the entire salon. Seconds later, I heard the door chime ring just as it had when I entered. The meth-addled-looking cigarette smoker that I had passed upon entrance was apparently in the mood for a wax as well, that or my purse. She didn't even look up as she slumped past me and took her place behind the counter. Figured. From under the counter, she pulled a Clip-Art-decorated price list that was seemingly laminated in the 90s, what with its numerous bubbles and curled edges. While the services were typed out (in Comic Sans no less, the unqualified intern of fonts), the prices themselves were handwritten on white labels, labels that were stacked at least ten thick. I wondered for a moment if this was a scratch-and-win situation - I was ready to grab a quarter and start scratching until I found a price I liked. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

I explained the service I was in the market for, and she surprised me with a follow up question: would you like regular, sensitive, or pain-free? Had I been transported to a Vegas buffet? What was with all the choices? Perhaps I would have ventured into a different category than regular if a) I believed there was actually a difference between the three, or b) they had more exciting names. Rather than "regular," "sensitive," and "pain-free," they should have gone with "fuck," "shit," and "ouch." If that had been the case, I would have probably opted for more than one choice. "I'll take two ouches and one really great fuck please." I wonder if their marketing team is looking for an inappropriate 20-something to join the group? They can't say I don't have any good ideas. I digress.

Ripping out hundreds of follicles of hair from one's nether regions would only be pain-free if there were medical grade tranquilizers running through an IV straight to one's arm - not that I've ever thought about this before. This seedy salon, I was sure of it, did not boast an anesthesiologist on its employee roster.  The pain-free option was a crock of shit option two. And option two - sensitive - was just as ridiculous coming from a salon that waivers on capitalization at first sight. Unless sensitive meant I was going to be cuddled and soothed after, I wasn't having it.

I let her know I was going with the regular wax and with a rather disappointed look, she directed me to the back of the salon, explaining the room I was to look for was just down the hall. Yeah, the dark eerie hallway. I made my way to the back of the salon while my shoes struggled to keep up. With every step came extra effort to peel the sole of my shoe off the sticky tile ("tile" is being generous - it was clearly linoleum). I finally got to the dark city-alleyway-looking hallway and discovered the room she had been referring to. It was hard to miss as it was labeled "1." As if there was a door "2." The only other door in the place looked like a papier-mâché massacre and led to the bathroom. I knew this because its sign read "RES RO M." Fortunately, I'm great at Wheel of Fortune (quite the soft spot for Pat Sajak) and knew where I needed to head should the occasion arise.

I walked into "1" and it was as cozy (and as big) as a uterus- how were two people supposed to fit in here? As per usual, there was a plastic-covered slab bed with the ever-welcoming paper sheet pulled over the top - just as you'd find in a doctor's office. This exists to make us all feel better about the sanitary conditions, but I know better. I was a ripe nine years old when I realized that toilet seat covers provide a false sense of security. I haven't used an airport bathroom since - and I always hover. It's proven more difficult with every passing year and cocktail. Heels and inebriation make for a tough hovering combination. And after seeing what was behind door number one, I'm pretty sure hovering wouldn't have been enough had I entered the door marked "RES RO M."

I went through the usual motions: hang purse, drop trou, grab cell to text friends as a distraction and/or play Sudoku. I hopped onto the tissue-papered table and, in my first 48 hours of sobriety after the nine-day bender, I felt the still-aggressive week-old bruise on my ass. The padding on the table was evidently the same padding used in my 7th grade bra and was not helping anyone. Knock knock. "Ready?" I find it so awkward when they ask if the coast is clear. Are they or are they not about to get all up in my lady bits? And they're concerned that they might find me mid-panty removal? Odd.

"Ready." Wince. As if the wax wasn't already going to be uncomfortable, add a bruise the size, shape, and coloring of the Death Star. Instead of allowing her to discover my wound on her own, I let her into my world as she was powdering my world (nothing brings you back to childhood like having your crotch speckled with baby powder).

"Sorry if I wince more than typical or move slowly, I have a bit of a bruise on my ass," I warned.

"Really? How bad is it?"

Cue me rolling away from her toward the wall, which, at this close proximity, I realized was nothing more than cork board painted white.

"¡Ay Dios mio! What happened mama?" God, I love it when they talk dirty.

I explained to her that this wasn't even the worst of it - it was a full week old. While she mumbled phrases that far exceeded my level of Spanish education, I mentioned it was much easier to deal with when I'm drunk (what isn't?). Then it happened.

"Want a shot?"

Umm, "excuse me?" Her accent was thick so I was sure I had misheard.

"Do you want a shot? I have vodka. I can get you a shot if you want," she said matter-of-factly.

I immediately had a vision of dying puppies as I thought, wow - I'm in the arms of an angel.

"Seriously?" After she nodded as confirmation I quipped, "God bless you."

She left the room, leaving me covered in powder, and returned shortly with a paper shot glass filled with a beautiful clear liquid. At the time, I didn't question her possession of a paper shot glass as I could only focus on one thing - booze.

(When I walked out of the salon)
"¡Salud!"

"Salud," she replied with a bright smile.

Sure, I could've been poisoned from sketch beauty salon "vodka," but I figured, why not? Bottoms up (quite literally).

OK, yeah, it tasted a bit like rubbing alcohol, but it warmed me right up and immediately took my mind off my injury. Hell, I barely felt the actual wax.

Each woman I've mentioned this to has agreed that every wax should be greeted with a shot.  I remind them that every anything should be greeted with a shot. Where else does happiness come from?

Friday, October 5, 2012

Fender Bender

Apologies for my extended absence. Turns out you have to live some experiences to be able to share them, and, boy, have I done plenty of living in the last week.

When you're single and you live alone, you make an effort to maintain a rather busy social schedule. There's something about sitting in your apartment for consecutive nights crying to reruns of Grey's Anatomy that makes you want to kill yourself. I'm rather partial to living, so, instead, I prefer to make plans that get me out of the apartment, and most of those plans just so happen to include severe amounts of drugs, sex, and rock and roll alcohol. The thing is, I tend to do things at one of two speeds: stagnant or Lindsay Lohan. Unfortunately (and fortunately), I've been a bit Lohan-ed out the past seven days, and I'm not talking the good Mean Girls Lohan. Rather, the dark drug-fueled binging-is-my-job lesbian-era Lohan (minus the lesbian, of course).
 
A gluttonous bender with no overarching theme other than "let's see how much my liver can handle," is a great way to remind yourself that although you're no longer in college, you can party with the best of them (it's just too bad the workplace frowns upon smelling of booze at 9am Monday through Friday). Like most 20-somethings, I miss the college days of excess, and attempt to recreate the parties of the past (here's hoping they figure out how to recreate fully functioning livers soon).

You know you're on a bender when you stand naked in front of your mirror, spin around, and find several unexplained men lying in your bed bruises covering your body - the body that hates you harder than the Bloods hate the Crips or fetuses hate abortion. Currently, there may or may not be a bruise the size of Karl Lagerfeld's newest Hula Hoop Bag (→) on my left ass cheek. Okay, perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration, but it is rather large and grossly discolored (I want to take a moment to clarify that it is not in the shape of a hand). It basically looks like a rhinoceroses head-butted my ass. I was on a bender and my fender was caught in the crossfire.

Ballpark stairs can prove to be rather difficult to navigate. They also have a way of sneaking up on unsuspecting drunks people enthusiastically celebrating a great play by Swisher (yes, that was a way for me to blame something other than myself for the ridiculousness that happens upon me as a direct result of the decisions I make, as per usual).  I've learned that it's best I avoid sitting in an aisle seat at any future games. I will, however, continue the ballgame binging - beers just taste better at Yankee Stadium, what can I say?

Thank God I didn't eat shit at the Barclay's Center. Diamonds in the air never look great on clumsy white girls aggressively passionately singing along to "Clique." And what would Jigga have thought? Luckily, I didn't have to find out.

The best part about the bender is that each night of it was spent with different friends. That brings the judgments down significantly.  They can't all know what occurred in my life all week unless they read my blog, or my Facebook, or my texts... Hmm. Guess there is a lot of judging going on - and I'm doing most of it.

I'll be slowly getting my life back on track, so look for that in 2013 - I'm just assuming it will take that long. In the meantime, who wants to grab a drink tonight?

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

The Men That God Forgot

When set-ups, blind dates, and down-the-block crack heads don't work out, why not go for the gold...or the stop watch. That's right — I'm talking speed dating (was there really something you thought I wouldn't try?).

I tend to do things for the story, and this was no exception. After some rather painstaking convincing, one of my girlfriends agreed to join me for a night of five-minute-mystery — as long as I was paying. Before I even got the go-ahead from her, I booked our date night. I was ready for a buffet of douchebags dudes. So as to avoid important bar nights (e.g. ladies nights, potential real date nights, and the-hot-bartender-is-working nights), I signed us up for a Monday event (pre-football season, of course).

We started getting ready, and at one point, caught each other's gaze, exchanging the "what are we getting ourselves into" look. We were committed, though. Well, I was committed; she was in it for the free booze entertainment. We remained mildly optimistic in regard to how the night would end up as we cabbed it to the west side.

When we walked in, I made a beeline for the bar, and the event coordinators approached us with an apology — they were overbooked on men. I'm sorry, since when is an uneven guy-girl ratio in women's favor something to apologize for? Apparently, I wasn't really listening to their full confession because as my friend and I ordered our first round at we-really-went-through-with-this cocktail hour she told me she would be leaving after this round. They weren't just overbooked on guys - they upped the age limit for them. We arrived thinking we would be surrounded by gentlemen within a reasonable age bracket, but instead, found that the prospects now included significantly graying heads.

I convinced her to stay through offerings of vast quantities of liquor (we are friends for a reason). I explained that I had often considered a life of laziness leisure, and maybe one of these men could become my J. Howard Marshall. A girl can dream. She assumed I was joking about moving to Florida with my future terminally ill husband, as the evening started.

It was every bit as awkward as you could imagine. I had hoped Will Smith would show up at some point and liven things up, but he clearly had better things to do. Of course, I ended up entertaining myself for most of the evening — making up new stories for each potential suitor, each story more aggressive than the next. They did keep the booze flowing, after all.

At the end of the evening, everyone was asked to rate the people you enjoyed out of everyone you met, and if you both rated each other at all, the guy would be given your email address. I wanted to keep things simple and opted to only rate the oldest and feeblest looking guy I met. I received an email from him two days later.
Hello Lily,
We had the pleasure of meeting Monday evening at speed dating.  I enjoyed spending time with you and was pleased that you were interested in continuing our dialogue.  If I remember correctly, you have friends visiting from out-of-the country for a few more days.  Therefore, I wanted to invite you to join me for a drink after work tomorrow or Friday evening.  Do either of those days work for you? 
By the way, I would prefer to actually talk to you and hear the sound of your voice rather than communicating via e-mail.  My phone # is (917) ***-****.  If you are comfortable sending your number, I will give you a call so we can chat. 
Have a great day.
After no response, he emailed again four days later. You know, just in case the first was never received.
Hello Lily,
We had the pleasure of meeting at the speed dating event last week.  I'm not sure if you received the previous message I sent from my work e-mail account, so I wanted to try again using my yahoo account. 
I enjoyed our conversation and thought you had a great sense of humor.  I look forward to seeing you again and wanted to invite you to join me for a drink after work.  Please advise regarding your availability.  
"Continuing our dialog." "Prefer to actually talk." "Please advise." This dude obviously didn't understand how to appropriately flirt via email nor how to elicit a response of any kind. Did he remember meeting me at all (I mean, obviously he did since he complimented my sense of humor)?Surely I hadn't implied I was a lady period who enjoyed talking on the phone or emails laced with business talk. I could've sworn I mentioned my affinity for buzzing one out at some point. My dreams of changing my husband's colostomy bag were over.

I realized that, sure, I wouldn't mind a life a leisure, but if it came with saggy balls and zero personality, I'd pass. I mean, his emails weren't terrible, but they were a bit too bland for my liking. All he had to do was insult me once or twice, and I would've been putty in his veiny, sun-spotted hands. Guess the only logical next step is Bingo night - do they serve booze in nursing homes?

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Blindfolds, Whips, and Chains

My mother recently visited me in the city, and since this post could become its own paperback, I'll share just one story from the experience.
---

The woman talks. A lot. She loves engaging in conversation with just about anyone (I'm still surprised the Hot Nuts cart guy didn't follow us home). One discussion from her travels that stands out above the rest is one that lasted five hours.  Fortunately, it was a conversation had neither with me nor in the presence of me. As she recounted the lengthy exchange she had with the passenger seated next to her on the flight from Vegas (poor bastard), I realized this wasn't just a "for-shits-and-giggles" tale. There was a motive in her tone, and I'm disappointed it took me as long as it did to figure it out.

She was trying to set me up.

I don't understand what it is about me that suggests "can't find a guy on her own," but apparently I'm swimming in it. It's one thing when your peers try their hand at matchmaking; it's completely another when your mother does. It's worse when your mother concludes that a man she met on a cross-country flight from Vegas, a man I'm sure got fewer than five sentences in on the conversation, is the man I should be with.

During much of her visit, she kept boasting about Jonathan. "He's such a kind soul." "He's so good looking." He's successful." It was more than apparent that she already liked this Jonathan guy more than she liked me. What could she have possibly learned about him in the five hours they sat next to each other that would lead her to think we were a match made in heaven?  It almost sounded as if she was interested in him.

She retold her story to my friend over dinner, in attempt to further encourage me to reach out - if she had one more person bending my ear her hopes might turn into reality. Apparently, my mother had forgotten I write a blog - if reaching out to the guy turned out well, no harm, no foul. If it was a complete joke - viola! - blog post! And here we are.

After I put  my mother on a flight back to Vegas, I emailed Jonathan the following:

Hi Jonathan,

I would start off by saying, "You don't know me, but..," however, because you were subjected to sitting next to my mother in a confined space for multiple hours, you surely know more than you'd like to about her family members.

I decided I would reach out to apologize on behalf of my siblings and me. We know, better than anyone, how much our mom can talk. When she and I were walking around the city during her visit, she started so many random conversations I feared she wasn't even here to visit me at all. God love her.

If you're ever in the city, let me know. I think I owe you a drink (or seven). I'll expense them back to her - no worries.
Hoping your future travels include noise-canceling headphones,
Lily
That's really as good as my game gets. More often than not, my game consists of getting myself drunk enough to look appealing to guys at a bar: "Hey, she won't put up a fight - let's go with her" (Maybe the case for illegitimate rape can be made in this instance? Is it rape if the "victim" is on top?).  I felt good about the email, though.  I mean, what else is there to say really?

He wrote back and was much too kind when referring to the amount my mother talks - already a turn off.  We made plans to meet for happy hour at a place of my choosing the following week.

I'm never on time for anything, in fact, it was the earliest I had ever been late when I showed up to the date, and he wasn't even there! Strike two, buddy. When he finally arrived, I realized I hadn't drank enough at the bar across the street beforehand.  Really, mom? I decided the only thing I could do was entertain myself. He was barely keeping up with my banter, which made my sarcasm that much more aggressive. He wasn't a terrible guy, he just wasn't a guy I would choose on my own. We both drank away the awkwardness. The last thing I remember was returning an empty shot glass to the bar counter, looking around and being unable to locate Jonathan anywhere. I waited it out for a while then headed home.

The asshole pulled an Irish-exit on me.

Obviously, I'm my own worst enemy (or liquor is his). However, instead of blind dates, I'd much prefer actual blindfolds and possibly whips and chains. Yes, I'd rather be beaten than go on another blind date. Where's Chris Brown when you need him?

And mom, just because a guy is hungover polite enough to put up with you on a long flight, does not mean he's the guy for me. So, unless you're sitting next to Joe Manganiello, set them up with your other single daughter - the one you like.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Ode To Summer

Good riddance, summer. Fuck you.

OK, that might be a little aggressive, but there are a variety of reasons that I'm as excited as a welfare kid on Christmas that fall is upon us.

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, and because she clearly doesn't know me at all is a courteous person, she asked, "I'm devastated that summer is over, aren't you?" Not. One. Bit.  The thing is, I haven't liked summer since I moved out of my mother's house back in '04.  It's not that she was some demigod that single-handedly perfected summer for 18 years of my life.  If anything, her air conditioning rules haunt my dreams and often I break into a sweat just thinking about it. Summers before 2004 were carefree.  If there were jobs, they revolved around maintaining a solid tan.  There was so little responsibility, I'm surprised I even made it out of bed in the afternoon morning.  Those days are long gone.  Now summers consist of the same responsibilities of spring, fall, and winter, but summer brings one element the other seasons do not: sweating like a 16 year old before the morning after pill could be purchased over-the-counter. 

I sweat worse than anyone I know, and many of my friends can attest to this.  It's uncomfortable, embarrassing at times, and sours my mood to rival that of a native New Yorker.  I get it - I choose to live in a city that boasts "seasons," and often time those seasons come with certain elements.  Summer's being humidity, of course. 

(Source)
Growing up in Vegas, we didn't even have "weather" let alone "seasons." So, perhaps I might be able to blame my body's reaction on my upbringing; hell, I blame everything else on it, why not this too. I was reared in dry heat, dry scorching heat (I remember having to wear oven mitts to handle the steering wheel and still have remnants of scarring from a seat belt burn or two). Now, I'm plagued with humidity. 

Humidity is the more uncomfortable than inserting a tampon incorrectly, and both remind you of how torturous movement can be. I can't walk to the subway at 8:00am without breaking into a full sweat, much like the man in this picture. No exaggeration.  My morning shower is immediately null and void as I leave my apartment, and I yearn to arrive at the office, open my top drawer, and re-shower with baby wipes like a prostitute. Not to mention, it's hard to navigate being hit on in the summer.  When a guy tells me I'm hot, I'm not sure if it's a compliment or he wants to offer me a towel. Ugh, I hate summer.

Worse yet, apart from the sweating, summer reminds me that I'm poor.  I really dislike poor people (who doesn't), and having to dislike myself more than usual for an entire season is beyond tiring and surely detrimental to the longevity of my mental stability. My reaction to Hamptons status updates clogging my newsfeed is to immediately turn up the A/C fan speed.  A/C is my Hamptons pool, and Coors Light is my Prosecco. Not only am I a broke version of Hamptons partying alone in my apartment, I'm creating a wider monetary gap between myself and the "summering" assholes with the amount I'm spending on power to keep that A/C going.  It's a lose-lose season for me. 

The only time I have been able to use "summer" as a verb was while vacationing in Nantucket in 2007. If that wasn't a prediction for my future "summering," I don't know what was. I was surrounded by Vineyard Vines and pearls while I searched for beach volleyball tournaments and keg parties (you can take the girl out of Manhattan Beach, CA, but you can't take the alcoholic tendencies out of the girl - I think that's the saying). I could tell my social inappropriateness was never going to mesh with the east coast summer style. Should've weighed that reality a bit more when deciding on my cross-country move. I'll just have to chalk that up as one more bad decision, that, in turn, has created wonderful stories.

In summation, I cannot wait to sit on fall's face and bid summer adieu, Coors Light in hand. 

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

I'm Not That Into You

The battle between being polite and getting your point across can be harder fought than a Lannister-Stark war; often times, it can include just as much blood and rape (fortunately, not as much incest). Tell a person fervently into bedding you that you're flat out not interested and you're an asshole. Courteously respond with vague negative-based maybes and noes and you're a tease. Navigating disinterest is easily one of the more difficult situations in the dating world (right behind STDs and unwanted pregnancy). How do you let someone know you're just not that into them without making their weekly therapy sessions revolve around you and your cold black heart (why's it got to be black?)?

Not too long ago, I was inflicted with the inconvenience of having to let a guy know it wasn't going to happen. I suppose I shouldn't have reciprocated in post-2am-conversation by reporting on my exact location, but that's not important. What is, is that he actually showed up - who'd have thought? So there I was, enjoying an after-hours beer at my home-away-from-home the bar, and Dave drops by. The bar had already closed (it may or may not have been after 4am), but apparently stumbling up to the door and mentioning my name after closing grants one access (and I thought I would never be an important name in this city). I immediately looked to Emma, my partner in crime for the evening (and many other evenings for that matter), and mumbled as clearly as possible, "I'm not sleeping with him; remind me." She did far better than that.

The three of us walked back to my apartment, commenting on the beautiful Sunday morning sunrise. I thought about attending an early mass, but figured it was best I stick to my usual, lazy 7:30pm Jesus Party so as not to get too excited for the consecrated wine during communion. Catholic guilt loves dropping in like a surprise period on a beach vacation (or worse, a hot date - like the kind with food and the guy footing the bill - one can dream).  I digress.

We arrive at my apartment, Dave hops on my bed (confident much?), and Emma and I take to the couch to watch whatever movie we had been pre-gaming to hours before.  I might take a moment to remind everyone that I live in a studio apartment, meaning the bedroom is the living room is the kitchen is the great room is the den is the game room is the theater is the gym...you get the idea.  Dave really thought he was going to get lucky with Emma an arm's length away.  He tried motioning for me to join him as I ducked his advances by adamantly explaining that seeing the end of the movie was of the utmost importance.  Dave wasn't taking the hint (much like a certain gentleman that texts me almost once a month to no reply →).  I determined that I had already used up my fake sleep card and had to instead opt for a fake sick one.  No way would he believe I was too far gone; I managed not even one stumble on the journey home.  I glanced to Emma who was sitting to my direct left and sent her a text.

Me: He needs to leave.
Emma: Whatever you want lol how can I help?
Me: Throw up? Pretend? I'll hold your hair back?
Emma: Now or at the end of movie?

Talk about a wingman - without question she agreed.  She not only agreed, she consulted me on timing.  Never existed a better reminder of how much you love someone. 

Immediately, she popped up and ran to the bathroom.  I gave my best shocked/concerned look to Dave and followed after her.  The gagging and rough coughing sounds Emma mustered up were brilliant.  I'm pretty sure had Dave grown curious and walked into the bathroom, she would've actually thrown up - she was that dedicated to the role.  I raced into the kitchen to get her a much-needed glass of water while exchanging ugh-she's-ruining-everything glances with Dave.  She gargled the water and then used it to imitate vomit hitting the toilet water.  A true talent. We were trying our best to hold back our laughter, and she cleverly disguised her giggles into gags. We decided she would curl up on the bathroom tile and I would get him to leave.  

Instead of leaving after I had explained the situation, Dave told me we should let her nap it out in the bathroom and he promised to pick her up and put her in my bed postcoital.  Seriously? Well, I had to keep up the charade and explained that I should at least cover her.  I tiptoed back into the bathroom and related his relentlessness to Emma.  The bathroom was no good - she needed to pass out in plain sight.

She shuffled out of the bathroom and crawled into bed next to Dave as his expression shifted from anticipation to horror.  His eyes darted to me pleading that I do something about where she had decided to crash.  On her way into my bed, she mumbled, "My side of the bed..." It was perfect - it had just the right amount of slur with inebriated undertones.  He was sure to head home after that.

Nope.

Alternatively, he suggested he pick her up and move her to the couch (yes, the same couch that is an arm's distance to the bed).  His persistence was more frustrating than realizing you have to drop a deuce as soon as you step out of the shower. I curled up beside her and whispered not to move no matter what; more audibly, I asked her if we could move her to the couch.  I had to keep up my "I'm a victim, too" pretense.  Emma retorted with a resounding, "If you move me I'll throw up, just five more minutes...five more minutes."  The perfect drunken five-more-minutes-fade-out.  Wow, she was a better friend than I could have ever imagined.

Dave gave up on the much-coveted bed and threw me onto the couch.  I rolled off the couch and got him to leave as fast as Kim Kardashian rolled off Ray J's dick and became famous.  He finally walked out, shoes in hand, like a true Sunday morning walk-of-shame - the shame being he failed to get laid.  "A" for effort, though buddy.  "A" for effort.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Relocation

I absolutely love my apartment. I love its location, its size, and most importantly Narnia. Yes, I have access to Narnia on the Upper East Side - jealous? Thing is, I had a large wardrobe in my last apartment, and it accommodated 90% of my clothing.  I was beside myself when I realized there wouldn't be room for it in my new studio. Moving from a roomy two bedroom into a studio is difficult enough without the added pressure of potential clothing racks lining the hallway, bathroom, kitchen, etc. I was a few coping-cocktails away from posting it on Craigslist, and waiting to watch all that beautiful storage space leave me forever when my roommate came up with a brilliant plan - Narnia.

All I had to do was remove the back of my wardrobe and position it in front of the existing closet in the room. With the trusted assistance from my dad (and a few moving-day-cocktails), we affixed the wardrobe to the closet doors and voila - Narnia! Now existed a gateway to a beautiful land and some little half goat looking son of a bitch that could show me where the Turkish Delights were stashed. Home sweet home. Well, it was home sweet home until last week when I found out I would need to relocate ASAP.

OK, maybe I'm over-exaggerating, but hear me out.

I had been enjoying a bottle of wine (yes, to myself) in Central Park during a screening of The Big Lebowski. I wanted to honor The Dude with a White Russian cocktail, but my schedule did not allow the time to build said beverage in an appropriate commodity. My friends enjoyed libations as well, but the bottle ended up only serving one - oops. After the cult classic credits began rolling, we headed back to my apartment. We dropped off our chairs and blankets, and decided it was best to maintain our level of intoxication by heading to the bar. 

We walked in and the bartender served me up my regular icy cold draught. My friend (the other decided to retire at a respectable hour) and I made great conversation with the other patrons, and even enjoyed a few shots on them. When my beer had but a sip left, the bartender came over with a full pint in hand and told me, "This is from your boss." I figured he was joking, but threw him a puzzled look regardless. He then confirmed my suspicions when he said, "Yeah, your boss, Tony." How did he know my boss's name? My eyes darted frantically around the bar looking for answers. My boss visits elite establishments that require memberships; no way would he be at a dive bar whose slogan is "Put Some South in Your Mouth." My heartbeat finally slowed when I saw the culprit - Josh - one of my boss's contractors whom I saw at the office only a few days before. His eyes were bloodshot and he was enjoying a good laugh at my expense.

Reason one that I needed to relocate: my professional life has begun to mix with my personal. Josh was allegedly a regular at this bar - a claim I refuted since I was a regular and had never seen him there before. He proved himself quickly by scrolling through his contacts and pointing out bartenders that worked there. I am never on my best behavior at that bar - I can't risk my shenanigans getting back to my boss. I must move.

If Josh showing up to buy me a beer "from my boss" wasn't reason enough, a few moments later my doorman walked in. What. The... He made a beeline toward me, and greeted me with his creepy I-might-keep-children-in-my-basement grin. "I always hear you talking about this place when you leave, and I decided to check it out," he admitted to following me. Being the kind and drunk friendly girl I am, I offered to buy him a drink. "I really like vodka, I'll take a Malibu rocks." Ummm.... I ordered him his rum vodka, and we all started chatting about the fine establishment in which we all now drank. One thing led to another and my friend and I snuck out of the backdoor with the bartender's assistance. We had been hiding in the restroom for a solid five minutes before I poked my head out and saw my doorman's eyes locked on mine. I'm sorry, but I learned my lesson with men and their blackouts. The only thing we could do was sneak out of there. Apparently, I was too far gone to realize I would have to see him the next day...and every day thereafter for the remainder of my lease.  Oops. In retrospect, I shouldn't have pretended to date rape his drink when Call Me, Maybe? came on (my favorite remix is Date Rape Me, Maybe). 

I got home safely and peeled myself out of bed the next morning confused by what day it was. I managed to shower off some of the hangover, and left for work. To my horror, my night doorman was wobbling on the corner at the end of the block. He was wearing the same clothes he had on the night before, and looked lost - no way he made it home yet. I avoided eye contact and continued on my commute. I should have taken that as a sign from above and gone back to my bed because shortly after I arrived at the office I was called out for "reeking of alcohol." Awesome. I spent the rest of my hangover the day researching apartments, and only stopped when I came to grips with the real problem - me. Because "no matter where you go, there you are."

Friday, August 24, 2012

Sexual Conquests 65-81

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)


So it's true what they say - all good things must come to an end, and thus, here we are. I would pour out some booze for conquests One through Eighty-One, but 1) I don't waste booze 2) I don't waste booze and c) I'm hungover and might puke if I smell liquor other than that seeping out of my pores ("You smell like alcohol." - direct quote from my colleague this morning, and it means only one thing: a successful evening. More on that later). I do realize it wasn't just 81 victims conquests - some numbers included multiple ladies. He's just that entertaining.

This last bunch ties in wonderfully with the entire list - they're great. The body-piercing bunch, apparently. Poor Sixty-Five, she probably never saw that slap coming (good thing she's not a pop star - they get those affections to the face). She should at least be grateful her nickname didn't become "purple cock print." Knowing this guy, that was a definite possibility.

More importantly, let's look to Sixty-Nine. "Grenade." Yes, this was written in '06 - Mike "The Situation" from Jersey Shore wasn't the first to coin this term. Casanova should collect royalties.

Seventy-Eight is another favorite of mine. She is lovingly compared to Paula Abdul (much better than 32's Ricky Lake), but now I'm curious - does the real Paula Abdul have a similar "thatch" of pubic hair. Seriously, HOW does he remember these details?

I hope you've enjoyed this list as much as I have. No matter what horrible things I've done in my life, I know I'm a better person than this guy. It helps me sleep at night (so does the vodka). So, I really just want to say, thank you, Casanova. I hope your dick hasn't fallen off, I hope you have managed to dodge procreation, and I hope you holler at me with an updated list. 

Additionally, I find it necessary to reiterate - I am not on this list, nor any updated version that might exist. Something that I'm proud of and sad about at the same time.  I mean, he did say he was "immortalizing" these chicks.  Too bad he spelled demoralizing wrong.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Guiding Kids Through Life's Storms

I recently caught up with a grade school classmate that I hadn't seen in over a decade (ugh, I'm old).  It was a booze-filled gathering, as most reunions tend to be. We updated each other on our lives, reminisced about our Catholic School upbringing, and might have even made projections on the future. I suppose what I meant is that we got drunk, shared horror stories of our current predicaments, complained about our Catholic School upbringing, and made the accurate assumption that we will be stuck living the same monotonous lives for the foreseeable future. It was a great time.

While the encounter provided plenty of funny things to write about, I'd like to focus on the Catholic School complaints. I've only ever attended Catholic School - kindergarten through college. I'm not one for making excuses (yes, I am), but all issues apart from those of the daddy variety can and will be chalked up to parochial schooling. The most interesting part, however, is how both categories of issues crossed paths in my young, formidable years - a correlation that I had effectively forgotten until my blast-from-the-past friend made mention of it. Like a frenemy after a hangover reminding you of the actual attractiveness of your hook up the night before all the terrible decisions you made the night before, my former classmate asked if I remembered Rainbows.

Well, I do now - thanks.

(Source)
Seemingly, I had repressed this period of my youth (wishing I might have repressed this part instead). Unfortunately, as soon as he mentioned the word Rainbows, the yellow workbook came racing back into the memory banks. Ah, the fond memories of having to participate in a program focused on "guiding kids through life's storms." Essentially, it was a class for kids with divorced parents - at least that's what they focused on at my school. Rainbows come after storms - oh, I see what they did there.

Their website explains that "children need guidance and compassion to prevent a loss event from literally defining their lives through later destructive choices. In fact, research proves that unresolved grief leaves kids vulnerable to major at-risk behaviors." Boy, did they fail with me.  If anything, I've perfected destructive choices. I've even found a way to capitalize on those choices, and you're reading it right now.

Cut a kid's recess time, and you're asking for future at-risk behaviors. But, apparently, Rainbows figured it was better that kids with divorced parents focus on their broken homes and how that makes them feel rather than focusing on kickball. I could've been an Olympian if I had been allowed to harbor all of that "loss" into athletics. Yes, I just blamed a youth organization for my failures in life. You know what helps kids through life's storms? Singling them out by putting them in a faux-support group so the whole school knows they come from broken homes. There was even a picture in the yearbook - right between Newspaper Club and Spelling Bee. The should have just captioned the photo "Children with Absentee Fathers."

Perhaps I didn't fully participate in the program; I didn't give it my all. I come to this assumption because if any class in recent memory can attest to my efforts - I definitely didn't do the required reading. If the reading would've gotten me my recess back, maybe I would have. They should have predicted a future riddled with technology and held the program during Handwriting class - cursive is so stupid. The only thing I need cursive for is my signature. Why not teach little Lily how to write three letters in cursive to sign her name and call it a day? But, no, I had to sit around and talk about my feelings while the other kids were outside growing boobs and self-esteem. Thanks, Rainbows.

When If I get divorced, I'll make sure my mistakes children steer clear of youth organizations void of competeition. I'm breeding athletes here, no time for pussy shit feelings.

---

"I'm pretty sure I drank that terrible program out of my memory." - my brother after I reminded him

Friday, August 17, 2012

Sexual Conquests 49-64

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)


I love attention, but come on Fifty-Sixes. I wonder, although, if that's a typical Tuesday for them? It doesn't strike me as a rookie threesome maneuver, and this was before the days of YouPorn. Speaking of technological advances, I've just realized that all of these girls were pre-smartphone, damn. The List could have come with photo/video attachments, because you know Casanova would have convinced most of these sloozies to pose for his mobile device. Never have I wanted his updated List more, meh.

Also disappointing - his lack of detail with Fifty-Eight. What happened on that bus? He's so flippant with the information he provides. Bus bitch gets nothing, while Sixty gets condom detail. I really hope this means he threw one on with One through Fifty-Nine as well and this trend didn't just start because he felt inspired by AC/DC (great song choice by the way, Sixty clearly aspires to be a stripper - I dig it). 

While the condom mention threw me off, I was more surprised that he's able to recall the color of these girls' eyes. Few people ever remember that detail about even one person, let alone dozens. I couldn't tell you the color of all my exes' eyes. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. Does that make me a comparable asshole to Casanova (he even admits he is - Sixty-Two)? Not even close.

This guy runs through high school friends, strippers, and divorcées (some categories overlap). You (yes, you) have probably slept with him without knowing. Well, if not this Casanova, surely another. Just make sure you wrap it up.  Unless, of course, you're Catholic - that's a sin. Instead, spread disease and irresponsibly procreate (one and of the same, really).

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Concrete Jungle. Concrete Crotch.

You know it's taken a turn for the worse when your friends announce they'll be commandeering your dating life. They're pretty much saying, "You're embarrassing us, and if you don't kill yourself soon, we will." Actually, I think that's exactly what my friends said when it happened to me. I can't say I really blame them. 

The dating coup was decided over a fancy Restaurant Week dinner, the only kind of fine dining I could afford having spent all of my money at bars on putting-myself-out-there drinks. They realized it was time to step in once it was my turn for the "any special guy in your life" update. They had all just finished boasting about their seemingly wonderful relationships, and were horrified when I showed them a picture of a bar hook up that passed out on my couch before the hook up part of the deal ever happened. Apparently, this was the last men-in-Lily's-life overdose they could handle before staging an intervention.

Sure, it had been a while since I had been out on a real date. The dating world was apparently boycotting me as much as my vibrator, which had decided to go on strike right in the middle of my slump. Just because it had been a while (or forever) since I had a great guy in my life, didn't mean I was incapable of choosing the right men on my own. Or did it? Regardless, I gave in to their demands, and found myself six emails into an "Introduction - Lily/The Ted" conversation later that week. 

The banter was fueled by sports talk after my matchmaking friend, Cane, made it well-known that we were football rivals.  Historically, Cane had always refused to set people up so as to not disappoint on either end (she never disappoints as a drinking/judging/bitching buddy). For me and "The Ted," she decided to make an exception. Spoiler alert: she shouldn't have.

The thing is, I should've realized it wasn't going to end well when the scheduled steak dinner turned into happy hour drinks. There must be something about my email correspondence that screams "no self-respect" because he knew I wouldn't object to an excess of drinks replacing food. Fast forward a few hours and we were back at my apartment (high fives to my doorman on the way in - he always appreciates a fresh new face).

I didn't necessarily want to make out with him, but the Jameson convinced me it was better than the solo manual labor I would try for and undoubtedly fail at later. We found our way to my bed, which isn't difficult in a studio apartment. The floor would have worked just as well, but why make an already uncomfortable situation more so?

The kissing wasn't terrible, but it was only moistening one set of lips. As is typical with most bankers, his seductive talent lived only on the trading floor. My mind began wandering (and wondering) to the better days of hook ups. Would things ever live up to past excitements?  Gone were the college days where the beds weren't the only things that were extra-long. Gone were the juvenile, yet stimulating, high school days of sneaking out to head down the block giving the neighbors a show in the back of your hand-me-down car. Now all I had to show for myself (and the neighbors) was this average guy, his average kissing, his average penis (assuming the latter - and I'm probably being generous), and unfortunately some Concrete Crotch.

If you're wearing fairly tight jeans while reading this, you're at an advantage because you can follow along and experience this as you continue (I suggest against this if you are currently around children - pedophilia is frowned upon). When spreading your legs in tight jeans, you create a firm barrier that can form anywhere between two to four inches from your actual baby making parts. It is rock solid. Not even a karate chop could affect your situation (chopping being my favorite method of testing the concreteness).

Now, many guys fail to consider this when attempting to pleasure a woman. Either they don' t care or they don't care realize they're making a mistake.  While attempting dominance, they hover over you and spread your legs with theirs. You're wearing tight jeans and this spreading quickly creates a concrete barrier versus a preferred warm welcome (why didn't you just wear the sweatpants?) They put forth their best effort in clitoral stimulation, and it's all for naught as they remain two to four inches away from any vaginal (you're welcome) contact.

The Ted hit the Concrete Crotch as aggressively as Chad Johnson hit his wife (I wanted to go with a Chris Brown reference here, but I decided to attack it with current events). I was amused by his ignorance.  He really thought he was doing me a favor. "Please her and she'll please me." It's a standard misconception, and it should be renamed "Try and please her, she'll fake it for my sake, and she'll please me if I spend money on her."

I suppose I could have let him know the common mistake he was making, but his ignorance was the only thing that amused me at the time. If he couldn't find his way around a Concrete Crotch, he undoubtedly wouldn't be able to perform as I needed him to. It was finally time to cut him loose. I muttered, "I'm sorry, you have to go, I'm a lady," and escorted him out as he begrudgingly walked toward my door with a bewildered look on his face. I couldn't decipher whether his confusion was from me declaring myself a lady or me laughing and texting a backup mid-step.

The backup wasn't available, and sadly, I wasn't even in the mood to buzz one out (or my broken vibrator wasn't). A failed night in my eyes. It did teach me a lesson though: buy a dependable vibrator wear leggings more often on dates.