Speed Dating - PART ONE

I read once that Dannish people are the happiest in the world because they go into all life experiences with low to no expectations (don't ask me how they survey this -- just roll with me). Because of this, they are never let down and are usually pleasantly surprised. So it was for me with speed dating.

Last night after work Betty*, Elaine* and I met at Tillman's on 26th Street and then headed over to Vesta, the destination spot on 8th avenue, fairly close to Penn Station.

There was a large crowd outside the bar which let me know we were probably in the right place. "Are you here for the speed dating," a short, skinny asian guy with a clipboard yelled to me. I wanted to hiss at him, Hey buddy, keep your voice down!, but then I remembered everyone was here for speed dating so I relaxed. "Head to the back of the bar and down the stairs for speed dating," clipboard boy said. Did he feel the need to keep saying speed dating? We all three checked in and headed inside. Bob Sinclair's "Love Generation" was blasting and there seemed to be some sort of crazy girls gone wild thing going on, so we headed downstairs for our...event.

After stopping Elaine from falling head first down concrete stairs, we made it to the basement of Vesta. There was mood lighting that was a tad bit too low and there was very loud techno music. "Hey ladies!" a cherry voice said from the end of the bar. "I'm Pam*, I'll be your hostess for tonight. Please come pick up a nametag, scorecard and pen. Your table number is on your scorecard. The guys will be rotating so feel free to leave your coat in your seat while you get a drink."

"Yes," I said looking at Betty and Elaine, "a drink will be necessary."

The bartender was wearing a tank top that said "BUFF" in which she had cut a slit from top to bottom and was held together by only a very small piece of fabric at her boobs. "3 vodka sodas, please," I said. As we sipped our drinks we looked around the room — no one stood out against the crowd. At least there weren't that too many blonds, but then there were also some guys with receding hairlines.

Then came the sound of a loud GONG! (yes, litterally a miniature gong that she hit witha paddle) "Ok people, we are going to start things up. Please head to your numbered tables," Pam said.

I moved to table number 3. A slightly attractive Asian guy came and sat down across from me. "So this is pretty crazy, right?" he said smiling. I assumed he meant speed dating, so I nodded. "OK people," Pam said again, "We have a slight issue. There are more guys than girls. So what we can do is make each date shorter and at some points some of you guys will have a bi-round, or I can let some of the guys have the option of coming back to another event when you'll have the chance to talk to the ladies for longer. Please come see me if that is what you prefer."

"YES, I would prefer to come back to another event," my date said, getting up from our table and walking toward the bar. "I'd like to reschedule." Whaaaaat? I thought. I didn't even give him the chance to not like me and he already left! Great, great start.

After about two excruciating minutes, another guy finally came to my table. "Hi, I'm Tim*. What's your name?" And so it began. Nine dates and then a fifteen minute break to get more alcohol, and then 3 more dates. There was Tim*, the shy and short PhD student; The Greek, who we will give no name but "The Greek;" Sean, the army dude from Long Island; Andres*, the British guy; Marc "with a c" older, banker; Bernard*, the latin lova from Miami; Spencer - gay?; Jin* "in your personal space" guy; Jonathan from Queens; Pete*, the Carolina fan; James*, cutie who works in packaging (I had to ask what that was); Michael, the Russian from Coney Island; and finally, Sam*, the native New Yorker.

Each date was six minutes. Six minutes is actually a lot longer than you think. I googled it and six minutes is actually the length of time it takes to learn the Federal Fire and Safety Test - or six minutes is how long you can torture yourself if you listen to the Jonas Brothers' song "Six Minutes." For most dates, it was too long. Only for some was it not long enough. I wrote one word notes after each guy (see above) so I could remember who they were. But I also could not wait to compare notes with Betty and Elaine.

As an interesting aside, NYeasydates did not kick me out when I decided at "half-time" to tell an inappropriate joke to a group of people. Andres was attempting to explain why he believed speed dating to be a lot safer than just meeting a random person in a bar. I disagreed; "I could have just killed someone, washed my hands and come in here," I said.

"Yeah," said Elisabeth, who had been seated next to Betty, "I mean for all you know I could kill orphans or something." Hmm, I like this girl.

"Exactly, I was the murderer, in the kitchen, with the candelstick," I said. I looked around and everyone was laughing - ha ha good times. "Yeah, and we all know how you murder orphans with a candelstick?" I attempted, "Not quietly!"

Cricket...cricket...cricket... Betty was laughing, Elisabeth looked at me like she had definitely underestimated my weirdness, and Andres said, "I am surprised that as a woman, you find that funny. Just surprising." Geez, tough crowd.

Afterwards, Betty, Elaine and I finished our drinks, mingled for a bit and then hurriedly left so we could begin gossiping as soon as possible.

to be continued....

Speed dating - an introduction

Expenses today:
grande black-eye from Starbucks: $3.45
Diet Coke from vending machine at work: $1
Fee for tomorrow night's speed dating event: priceless

Yes, I am going speed dating tomorrow. It has been on my "goals" list for about 2 weeks (yes, I have a goals list - it also includes things like 'buy a pumpkin,' 'sign up for arabic classes,' and 'stop wasting time fantasizing about engaged co-workers...'). So far, I have not achieved any of these goals, especially the third one. Last night I was explaining to Elaine* how I was a little down. "I'm 0-3 with my dates, I haven't met anyone I have really liked recently and earlier today ate an entire bag of candy corn." Needless to say, it didn't take me long to guilt her into coming speed dating with me. I also took the liberty of signing up, Betty*, another single friend. Safety in numbers.

"Help me practice my conversation starters for tomorrow night," Elaine* asked while eating nachos and watching Pushing Daisies. "We only have 6 minutes with these guys, we need to make a good impression."

"I know, right? 10 to 12, six minute dates -- you have to be seriously memorable," I said slightly disinterested; I was staring intently into my empty facebook message inbox (the boy from 2 weekends ago still has not messaged me).

"Am I allowed to lie? What if I really don't like the guy, I could tell him a lie, right?"

"Of course!!" I said, shutting my computer. Forget that guy from last weekend -- I was doing speed dating to meet new people and not be pathetic and I needed to get my head in the game. "You are totally allowed to lie. Tell them you play professional mancala and enjoy a man who is not afraid to wear women's clothing."

"Oh, oh, or," Elaine* added, " 'I'm Elaine, I hope you don't mind I've brought my imaginary friend George along.' "

"Or, 'Sorry, I hope its not a problem I have herpes!'" Andi* said.

"If you answer incorrectly, please sit quietly until the next round: do you have substantial back hair? Past the age of 12, have you considered yourself a blond? Do you enjoy pomegranate martinis?" Elaine* and I composed.

In retrospect, neither of us really have really considered the idea that we might meet someone attractive, or score a possible second date. According to NYeasydates.com, we choose our matches at the end and post them on our "profile" on the website. The guys we meet tomorrow night do the same and if any of us mutually choose the other...the rest will be history! Details to come Friday.

Your search has yielded one million confusing results

Have you seen that new T-Mobile commercial for the G1 phone? Its the one where they do tiny vingettes of people asking really random questions like, "Do sharks have eyelids?" and, "What is my carbon footprint?" T-Mobile wants you to think that if you buy a G1 phone, you will be able to answer tough questions such as these with the push of a few buttons. This commercial always entertains me. Maybe its because I am curious and like to know the answer to such questions, or perhaps it is that I know it will take at least 5 google searches to come up with a satisfying answer, and in the end you may actually never find what you are looking for.



Finding the answer to questions in the realm of dating is a little like googling. You have to sort through all the crap, apply your best judgment, and in the end, use what you've got to come up with the most logical and correct answer to the question.

For example, "Reasons why the Venezuelan never called," would be an appropriate googledate search. (Of course the first answer would come from wikipedia: we all know to take answers from wikipedia with a grain of salt — one of my Art History professors in college was listed as deceased — needless to say, he was not.) "Reasons why Miguel*, the Venezuelan, may not have called you after your date ("date" is defined as when a pair can meet and engage socially) comes down to an amalgamation of your actions. While you made a good impression the first time, the second time, your binge drinking, purloining of a pleather jacket and all around sketchiness led him to believe you might be on the train to Crazy." Dangit, if its on wikipedia its probably 90% true. "The Venezuelan did not call because we have discovered he is totally Penelope Cruz's baby daddy!!" Page Six tells me. "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? That's why he hasn't called, you hussy!" I read on a blog. Hey, that sounds familiar...ahhh...the author of nevercallboystheywillnotrespectyou.blogspot.com is really my best friend's mother.



With all these possible answers, what the heck am I supposed to think? I guess when it comes down to dating, I can overanyalze every action I made, I can go with the stock "Hes just not that into you," or simply realize, if he doesn't call, it is totally his loss.

Don't call me, I'll text you

Yesterday at work I was discussing with a co-worker how texting has completely changed parenting. "I don't worry so much about my sons because I know I can always get in touch with them, even if its just through a quick text message," she said, describing her 7th and 9th graders. "But it has made them more weary to pick up the phone and call their friends. I think my sons are actually nervous to talk on the phone!"

Great, I thought. Just what we need. Another generation of boys who are scared to call girls. But, by the time her boys are in their 20's technology will be so advanced they'll probably be saying things like: "Don't worry, we have a mutual friend who'll help me telepathically message you this week." Yeah, right.

As I saw through my dreadful experience with the Lawyer, texting and facebook have changed relationships as we know them. It is now acceptable not to call someone you are interested in — a text message (or even a facebook message, for the love of God) have become the norm.
To me, texting and facebooking used to be something used in the early stages of the relationship. But, now it seems to be replacing calling all together! (All this being said, I am not a phone talker. In all honesty, after fifteen minutes on the phone I like to make long silent pauses so the other person feels awkward and hangs up). Regardless, because of this forced trend, if you called someone after meeting for the first time the response would be, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa...why is she calling and not texting me? The only person I talk to on the phone is my mom. Stalker..."

For example, my friend CC*met a guy about a month ago through mutual friends. They were into each other and hung out and hooked up a couple weekends in a row. He even told a mutual friend he was really into her. Then, he went out of town, she went out of town, and this past weekend was the first time they were in the City at the same time. "I mean, you think I can text him tonight, or is that too forward?" she asked over drinks last Saturday afternoon.

"Geez, if a text message to a guy (especially one that has proven his interest in you) is too forward, we are all screwed," I told her. Or at least I am, I thought - drunk texting is my forte. It also does not help my phone is from 1980 and does not save outgoing text messages. I either wake up in the morning with a responded message that says, "Umm, who is this?", or just a general feeling of dread.

But, my point is, if texting has replaced calling, and internet dating is slowly replacing meeting people in the "real world," where are we headed next? Telepathy dating? Meet that special someone without either of you leaving your couch! Oh dear - I think I'm going to have to learn to talk on the phone.

Spotted: Scarlett in the City

My best friend from high school, Scarlett*, came to visit this weekend. We had an action packed itinerary ("my number one priority being going to Canal Street for a fake purse," Scarlett had told me). "If I am going to Canal Street tomorrow morning to help you support child labor I better have lots of coffee" Elaine* said to her Friday. We made plans to get up at 10 am Saturday to start our busy day of shopping, eating and frolicking in Central Park.

"Scarlett, if we are going to be busy tomorrow we can't get too crazy tonight," I told her over dinner at EU on Friday. "We can meet up with people for drinks and come in at one-ish, cool?"

"Yeah, whatever is cool," she shrugged.

"Ok, good," I sighed. I felt myself sounding like a grandma, but I had worked late the night before and...it was Friday, I tried to rationalize. I should learn that each time I have uttered the words, "Ok, I'm not going to get too crazy tonight," the opposite happens. This past Friday was no different.

Elaine had to stay in to work on sketches, so Scarlett and I headed out and met up with my friend Eve* and some other girls at Lit in the East Village and then headed to SoHo. We went to a few places and ended up at Vig Bar, Eve's choice because of its great top 40 music and accordingly to her, cute boys. We arrived to find a line. Let me say, without sounding like an asshole, I hate waiting in line. I just never feel like a place can be cool enough that is worth waiting the cold. "Ummm, so about this line," I whined, looking around at everyone. I looked Scarlett and she also looked less than pleased. "Ok, I could go either way right now," she said, "I could go home and get a good night sleep, or we could just wait and give it a shot for a little while."

"Uhhhhh, fine. Lets wait in line," I said.

Luckily, the extremely large and unnecessarily scary bouncers let us in about 2 minutes later. While I had been in line complaining, Eve had been chatting with a fratty looking guy through the window. Once we got inside, I headed to the bar and Eve and Scarlett went to talk to the mystery man. Drink in hand, I went to meet them. "This is Chris*," Scarlett said. He smiled and we all stood chatting. It turned out he is friends from home with one of my friends from college. Also, over 5'10'' and brunette, I noted.

Long story short, we started flirting, Chris Brown started playing, and dancing ensued. At this point Scarlett was having a very aggressive conversation with Chris's friend, to the point that I thought she was having a bad time and I felt guilty that I wasn't being a better hostess. "So I feel like a douche bag using this line," he said, "but I live really close by and we could all go there and drink beer for free."

"Uh, ok. Let me grab Scarlett."

We walked up to Scarlett and Chris's friend and let them know the party was moving locations. "High five!" Scarlett said. "Low five?" Chris attempted. "Uh, RUDE," Scarlett said. Hmm, awkward.

We walked out and headed down Spring toward Lafayette, me still feeling guilty about dragging Scarlett to late night because I could tell she was not into Chris's friend. "Here, take my jacket, you look freezing," Chris said to Scarlett, who was only wearing a sleeveless dress and pashmina. He was not the first one to ask if she had lost her coat that night — the bouncer at one bar we went to let us in because he thought for sure he had left her coat inside. We finally got to Chris's apartment and immediately start playing Chris Brown "Forever" again. "So, who wants go sit outside on the back patio," Chris said, giving me a wink (trouble). "You," Scarlett yelled at me, "GO. I'm not moving."

"Uh, so it looks like she is staying here," I said, looking at Scarlett who was still having an aggressive conversation with Chris's friend about the use of the word ya'll. Chris and I went and sat out on his sweet back patio. "This is nice...," I said, attempting to sound sexy and coy, but actually coming off just plain awkward. "Yeah," he awkwardly replied. And then maybe we did some middle school style making out! That was until I was about to pee in my pants and absolutely had to go inside to the bathroom — we found Scarlett and his friend still talking. "So you're pretty crazy while in this state," I heard Chris's friend say while I was just sitting down on the couch next to Chris. "WHAT? What did you say?" Scarlett yelled, obviously misunderstanding anything he was trying to say. "Thats it — I'm out of here!" Throwing off Chris's jacket, Scarlett grabbed her clutch, turned on the heel of her Ugg boot, and sprinted out the door. "So...your friend is a bit of an irrational drunk I'd say," Chris whispered as the door slammed. "Yeah...she does this from time to time," I tried to explain. "I'd better go find her." Knowing the level of Scarlett's drunkenness and the fact she had no idea where the hell she was, I quickly grabbed my things and started to walk out. Chris walked me to the door. Not seeing Scarlett in the hallway or at the bottom of the stairs he said, "So yeah, you better go find her." Ok buddy, I thought — get my number, come on. "We're both friends with Mary* (our mutual friend) on facebook, don't worry, I'll find you," he said with a wink, a kiss, and then a goodnight. Find me on facebook, I thought as I ran down the stairs to find Scarlett, is that what we're doing now??? I walked out the door and looked down Lafayette both ways — no Scarlett. Damnit, I thought, shes run away. Suddenly I saw her little face peer around the corner of Spring Street and give me a big wave. F-ing A. "What the hell Scarlett!," I yelled,"come on, we're going home," and flagged a cab.

In the cab home, Scarlett attempted a deep conversation. "I really like his friend. Do you remember his name? Oh my gosh I have no idea what his name is. But I really like him. What is his name? We really hit it off. I can't believe we didn't make out. He was so cute. I really like him."

"Excuse me?" I squeaked, "You were arguing with him all night. I felt bad because I thought you were having a bad time. You liked him??"

"Oh my gosh I really like him. When we get home I have to find him on facebook."

What is with people and facebook tonight? I thought. Why not just get the phone number?? After grabbing pizza at the 24 hour place a block from my house and witnessing Scarlett almost get in a fight with two of the regulars, we walked in my door at 4:30 am. "Damn, I'm tired. I am going to bed," I yawned, eating the last bite of pizza and feeling like I might vom. "NO - first we have to find my guy on facebook," she said opening my laptop. To make a long story short, we ending up finding Chris on facebook, Scarlett friended him, she searched his friends and then friended 3 possible guys who could be her true love. "Ok, bedtime," I said.

Last night, in the clarity Sunday brings after a world wind weekend, I realized what a mistake the 5 am friending may have been. I called Scarlett who was back in Atlanta to scold her — "No, its all good" she said. "He will laugh, no worries! Then it will give him an excuse to friend you!"

I told Elaine* about the situation. "Ehhh, yeah, she blew it for you," she said with a wince. "This was probably what happened: he woke up Saturday at noon, got on facebook, saw a friend request from Scarlett Jones*, thought "who is Scarlett...ohhh," then he thought "whoa they friended me last night at 5 am... (because you know he knows it wasn't just Scarlett) thats kind of weird," and now he is freaked out. Well done."

"Damnit! Our only communication was to be through facebook and now drunken facebooking has ruined a non-existent facebook relationship."

"Well, if he doesn't facebook you this week I think it would be acceptable to facebook him next week and explain the situation," Elaine said.

I realized that facebook is now so crucial to dating (damn technology and its power to change the world) that a test should be installed in order to make sure you are in a sound state of mind before friending or messaging a person. That one friend request might make the difference! Oh wait, gmail already created that capability. Mark Zuckerberg, you are totally behind the times.

http://www.boygeniusreport.com/2008/10/07/mail-goggles-for-gmail-prevents-drunk-typing/

Well it made me laugh

For all you ladies out there who love the power-hungry, money making, "models and bottles," banker type, I suppose you have been looking elsewhere these days. This dude's book, about that type of man, is also being published at just the wrong time. My favorite quote from this article is:

"One of the most trying aspects for them, Mr. Chatwani explained, was the loss of 'perceived prestige' with women. 'A lot of my dude friends when they meet a girl in a bar, they've stopped talking for once about what they do,' he said. 'If you tell a girl you work at an investment bank, that gets you a sympathetic pat on the back. That’s not the response you’re looking for.'"

Check it. And the link to the blog the book started from leveragedsellout.com

This is a great post:
http://www.leveragedsellout.com/2006/05/how-to-get-a-banker-chick-for-the-non-banker-guy/

http://www.observer.com/2008/media/damn-it-feels-bad-be-dated

Mentiroso

So as many of you smart readers may have already deduced, I have not been in contact with the Venezuelan since our last date two weeks ago. Yes, he did say he wanted to see me that week. And yes, he did say he would call. But have I heard from the Latin liar? No, I have not. Bastard. What really burns me is the fact I was not even that into him – like I said, there was no “zsa zsa zsu,” if you will. That means I wanted to be the one to say, “Oh gee, I’m sorry I just don’t feel the same way. I know you’re madly in love with me, but heart break happens. You’ll pull through this – be strong.” Or in reality, screen his phone calls and return them with awkward text messages like, “Sorry, can’t tonight! But had so much fun!!!!!”

This humiliation is the risk you take with dating. Luckily in New York (please refrain from comparing me to Carrie Bradshaw with this sentence) there are enough men that chances are I will not have to see this mentiroso (that’s liar for you lay people) again and be embarrassed by his rude ways. Hell, I haven’t even run into my ex-boyfriend of 8 months since we broke up (except those 3 times I “accidentally” went to his apartment at 3 am). So, now it is onward and upward. But I’ll be avoiding all Venezuelan restaurants and discos, just in case.

The Flaw-O-Matic

John Tierney, writer for The New York Times, wrote a column in 1995 about his tested and developed theory of human behavior which he calls the Flaw-O-Matic. In the simplest of terms, it is a device in your brain which immediately spots a flaw in any potential partner. I found this article when I googled "best speed dating in New York City" (don't judge me -- I am just doing research here). Tierney did his research using personal ads and speed dating which is how I stumbled upon the article.

While the Flaw-O-Matic is used in the noggins of people outside of New York, it appears single New Yorkers are the most affected. It makes sense: if you live in a place like Garner, North Carolina you realize that your pickins' are slim and you are not allowed to have a 3 tier system by which you choose your possible dates. However, in New York, with millions of smart and attractive people, we are understandably picky. We have lots of choices. I am no different. I was recently describing to my friend at work the prerequisites a guy must have for me to even consider going out with him. "Ok, so we are looking at the 3 tier system here. Bottom tier contains the 'must haves.' He has to be over 5' 10'' and have brown hair. I would consider a red-head if he were over 6'. Absolutely no blonds. And no girly drinks (I had a bad experience with a date that ordered only pomegrante martinis). And sense of humor, of course. And its a plus if he wears glasses and has a slightly scruffy beard. And...thats about it for the bottom tier!"

"Ummm...I hope you enjoy being single because you're being ridiculous," he said.

"Untrue! This is completely realistic! And that is just the bottom tier. I haven't even mentioned tier 2..." I said.

So maybe I am being a bit unrealistic. I skimmed Tierney's article again. At the end he explores a possible idea of whether or not single New Yorkers actually use this Flaw-O-Matic as a defense mechanism to remain alone. WHAT! I took a deep breath -- does this mean I should be giving blonds a chance in order to not end up an old rotting spinster with cats and incense?? Yikes.

I googled Tierney and found a 2007 article in which he looks at the scientific side of the Flaw-O-Matic in more depth. He explains how a person's Flaw-O-Matic is altered during speed dating because of the much smaller pool to choose from. Interesting... would I be attracted to a short blond during speed dating? I think I will have to make this experiment happen.

John Tierney's articles:
The Big City: Picky, Picky, Picky
Romantic Revulsion in the New Century: The Flaw-O-Matic 2.0

Attn: REAL women of NEW YORK

This is amazing. I'm not sure who or how this guy was burned, but his pain has now made for my entertainment. I think he is angered by the deadzone, too. His rant also made me realize that my new pet peeve is when people RANDOMLY use ALL CAPS to get THEIR POINT ACROSS! I added the responses I found to his post below. My favorite is the one with only two words.

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/mis/875808425.html

responses:
http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/mis/876780980.html

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/mis/875916974.html

When a Blond is not a Blond

Friday night I had a "Bienvenido Fall" Dinner Party. The event was technically a "plus one," but seeing as how I am plus one-less, by Wednesday I was coming up short (and not having heard from the Venezuelan, he was not an option). "It doesn't matter, no one is going to be bringing anyone unless its their significant other anyways," Andi* said. "No! I put plus one on the invite and people need to stick to the rules," I pouted. By Thursday I broke down and texted my co-worker who was at home for Yom Kippur. "Shalom -- I am still minus-one. Please bring as many of your cute friends tomorrow night as possible. We need more boys. Mazel tov." I crossed my fingers one of them would be cute. At the least this would even out the ratio of girls and boyfriends to single guys. Well, the boys came, but no future husbands appeared. But they did bring the Patron! Large amounts of this is probably why at a later point in the night everyone broke out into song of "Kissed by a Rose" by Seal. It set the tone of the weekend...

Saturday night Elaine* and I met my good friend from college, Clarissa*, and her boyfriend, Brian*, and some of their friends at the bar 230 Fifth. The bar's main draw is the rooftop deck, with amazing views of the Empire State building, Chrysler building, NY Life building, etc... While many people I know have been there and seen very attractive people, last night it was more of a combination of foreigners, B&T (Bridge and Tunnel - signifying Long Island and New Jersey folk), and girls in sequiny dresses that I cannot place into any category at all. Also, I have not even had the opportunity to mention that 230 Fifth gives you complimentary red velvet robes with hoods to wear if you are cold out on the deck, so there was an entire "Eyes Wide Shut" scene intertwined with everything else. (All this being said, the bar itself is super cool and the views are amazing -- we watched them turn off all the lights of the Empire State building at midnight). Elaine and I made a lap of the deck after getting our second glass of wine. It was so crowded in some areas that we couldn't even move; poor Elaine got a Long Island Iced tea poured on the back of her head at one point. "Cute guys!" Elaine finally said, while wiping LIT off the back of her neck. "Ummm, they are totally blond. And we all know how I feel about blonds," I sighed. "No, no, they are Finnish or something, that means it doesn't count. They're Nordic blonds." I pondered this. "Yes," I slowly agreed, "Everyone there is blond. We have found a loophole to the 'blonds are shifty' rule! It would be a brunette your would want to watch out for in Finland." As we approached these 2 non-blonds, two girls in sequins side swiped us and moved in first. Damn those sequins!

Earlier in the evening, I made plans with my sister to meet up at some point in the night. karaoke was discussed, as it usually is, but I tossed out the idea because, well, I never end up making it to Korea Town for karaoke. But last night, for some reason, when my sister texted me "Kareoke in K-Town?" I texted back, "F Yes!" So I dragged Elaine, Clarissa, Brian and his friends to 32nd and Broadway to WOW Kareoke to meet my sister and her friend. Now, let me explain. This is not a kareoke bar. This is a place where you pay $10 a person and receieve a complimentary beer and your own private kareoke room for one hour. While we waited for a room to be available, I watched the employees of WOW run into the rooms and clean them when people left. I soon gave more thought to the fact that two people could probably pay the $20 to reserve a room, receive their 2 Coors Light tall boys, go sing R-Kelly "Bump and Grind" to each other for an hour, leave, and then the WOW employees would "clean" the room. "Eck," I thought. Mark this down on things that gross me out, like Metrocards and movie seats. Needless to say, this did not stop me from singing my song of choice, "Kissed by a Rose" by Seal.

Deep Thoughts by DatingGirl

When a man and woman become engaged, customarily the woman is given an engagement ring.  The man does not follow this custom.  Not to say there are not exceptions, I am just generalizing here.  An engaged woman's ring says, "Hoe, no! Hands off! You can look but not touch.  I am on a one way street that leads straight to the altar so I am definitely not available.  Can't you tell by this rock on my finger??!!"  An engaged man does not wear such a telling piece of jewelry; I find this unfair.  Engaged guys have all the same freedoms as a fiance as they did as a boyfriend.  I think they should be forced to wear some sort of symbol to show they are also permanently off the market.  A sparkly sticker, temporary tattoo, or even a lanyard bracelet?  

This all comes about from my pseudo crush at work.  We had been shamelessly flirting (in my mind) since I met him, until the fateful day I found the truth (who am I kidding, I still try and flirt with him now).  I was doing some work at his office and talking with a girl he worked with.  "I can't believe its almost Fall.  Its so weird Steve* is getting married so soon," she said off hand.  Skkkeeeeeeerrrrrrttt (slam on brakes noise).  Steve.  Engaged?  Marriage? Soon?  I was flabbergasted.  If he had been a girl, he would have been wearing a ring and there would not have been this confusion.  Now, about these lanyard bracelets...

Oh, Please

"Sure-fire" dating convo tips. My favorite parts of this article are the quotes from the women that apparently have been swept off their feet by these 10 never-fail tactics.

http://www.ploomy.com/2008/03/05/10-surefire-first-date-conversation-tips/

Natty Shermans, $4 and some vaseline

Friday night one of my best friends from college, Renee*, was in town. Never wanting to be a dull hostess, we made plans to go out dancing on the Lower East Side. Pianos was our first destination -- known for a high percentage of hipsters and sweaty sweaty bodies on the upstairs "lounge" dance floor, it promised to be a good time. It turned out that it really was a high percentage of guys that stood behind us like paper weights and attempted to slowly grind up on us, along with crazy Spaniards with spastic dance moves. I decided Pianos is only good for people watching. Elaine* did meet a slightly cute guy who followed us to Ray's pizza (my favorite destination for late night food -- last time I was there two guys got in a fist fight over parmesan cheese), convinced he was going home with her only to meet the end of the night with, "well I guess the closest Path station from here is 14th street...," she told him.

Saturday night I went out with the Venezuelan. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a text message from him on Friday asking me what I was doing during the weekend. We finally made plans for Saturday night -- his friend was having a party at Plumm and I planned on meeting him there. After staying out until 4 am on Friday night, Saturday afternoon I was feeling pretty lazy and the idea of having to be cheery and possibly speak Spanish with a guy that I didn't know was not amusing me. Even after showering and obsessing over outfits for the night, the nervous energy was still not coming. To make matters worse, Elaine* and Andi* were lying on the couch eating peanut butter crackers and watching Law and Order: my idea of a perfect evening. Yet, I somehow managed o peel myself away from Stabler and Benson to get in a cab and head to the westside. Because I had only met the Venezuelan once, I was nervous a) that I might not recognize him b) he might have super swanky friends that would notice my blazer was from the Gap c) he could possibly stand me up like the Lawyer if I was 2 minutes late. Luckily, everything went well -- it usually does when there is bottle service and lots of loud Rhianna involved (please do not think I go places with bottle service on a regular basis -- usually "bottle service" signifies me bring a flask into the bar). In fact, we had so much fun dancing, that I threw my non-designer Gap blazer down on a couch so we could hit the dance floor. When we turned to leave, I went to get my jacket and...it wasn't there. In a more rational state I probably would have been mad and then left the bar, but in the haze of Saturday night I thought, "well, guess I have to take someone else's coat then!" The next morning, I went to grab my blazer so I could go to brunch with my sister and instead of a black velvet blazer on the floor there was a black, fake leather, hooded bomber jacket. "Ahh!" I shrieked, and grabbed a cardigan instead and ran out the door.

Later that day, recounting the evening to Andi* and Elaine, I tried on the strange coat. It was made of polyurethane and smelled of old cigarette smoke. "That is the nastiest jacket I've ever seen," Elaine said, "couldn't you have at least stolen, like, a Chloe blazer or something attractive?" I put the hood on and reached in the pocket; a slim box of Nat Sherman naturals mint 100's, $4, and Vaseline appeared. Yuck. "Well I don't care. I am going to wear this f-ing coat everyday of the winter, just watch me. I don't care! And $4 - thats dinner!!" I yelled. I mourned the loss of my blazer, but then realized the "leather" jacket perhaps represented my recklessness Saturday night. Oh well. But, did mention I'm probably going to see the Venezuelan this week? Vamos a ver.