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.