A Glee-ful Addendum

Still nothing on the ladies, but seems the delicious Matthew Morrison kept his v-card until he was 21...

http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/marc_malkin/b211740_matthew_morrison_keeps_showing_off.html

Reflections

I'll go ahead and admit it- I am a full-blown, bona-fide Gleek. I love everything about Glee- the storylines, the music, the acting...occasionally the lack thereof. And seeing as how I haven't been dating lately (blah blah blah grad school blah blah blah work blah blah blah I'd really just rather stay home), I have had a lot of time to watch (and reflect upon) Glee.

Nota Bene: If you've never seen Glee, or if you don't like it, you'll probably want to skip this post. I'll try my hardest to snag myself an interesting date for your reading pleasure real soon...

Particularly the appearance of not one, but TWO adult female virgins! When Emma Pillsbury (played by Jayma Mays) admitted to being a virgin last season, I immediately began scouring the internet for opinions. What did people think? Were they shocked? Angry? Disgusted? Did they even care?

Apparently, not really. I have not been able to find a single comment, negative or positive, on this development, on the ENTIRE INTERNET!

Ok, on the first page of a Google search of "emma pillsbury virgin". Same diff.

But I was shocked. Sure, this woman has some serious issues, but she's sweet and gorgeous and thin- I would have thought at least ONE man would have had sex with her in spite of her issues.

But not a one. Not even sweet Will Schuester (Matthew Morrison). And no one on the internet finds this mentionable. It's as if this is totally and completely expected...

In which case I am SOOO totally screwed. I may as well be Coach Beiste (Dot-Marie Jones), McKinley High School's startlingly masculine football coach, whose physical appearance is supposedly so abhorrent as to be able to calm the raging sex hormones of the school's teenagers. She admitted two episodes ago that she has never been kissed, and was subsequently granted a tender peck by (apparent virgin magnet) Mr. Schuester.

What does the Internet have to say about this? They mostly feel bad for Coach Beiste because her first kiss was a "pity kiss". Which, I admit, was pretty much my feeling, too.

However, a few folks have chimed in that the kiss in question might not have been a pity kiss at all. It could have been a friendly, platonic kiss. There might have even been some romantic intention...

To which I say bullshit. First of all, a platonic kiss on the lips? Call me old fashioned, but I don't go around kissing my platonic male friends on the lips. And romantic intention? The man wouldn't even mess with the hot virgin!!!

But you know what? The fact that he's been messing with virgins at all is good enough for me. Because even though popular media is portraying adult victims of unintentional virginity as neurotic and/or unattractive, the fact that they are being portrayed at all gives me a solid case of the warm fuzzies.

And isn't that what television is supposed to do?

Out of the mouths of babes...

When I'm not out trolling for gentleman (gentle-ing for trolls would be more like it...), I work as a private duty nurse. One of my clients, an older woman, likes for me to sit with her during meals and chat. We discuss a variety of topics, and today she broached the subject of my love life:

Client: So, do you have a boyfriend?

Me: No, not right now.

Client: You know, that's the problem with your generation. You're all looking for love. Love isn't what's important. It's good communication and great sex.

Me: (stifling a laugh by stuffing cereal into my mouth) So, you think communication and sex are more important than love?

Client: (shrugs) What is love? I don't know, and I've been married and had lovers. Did I love them? Who knows? But I enjoyed talking to them and sleeping with them.


May I someday have as vital a "love" life as my dear client.

Apparently, my blog is in communication with species from another planet

w I7( ?? y??????? DE?A??X?.??s ?lN???2; B????? z?A??N? ]?a?i ???r?;?.?@?7(????a{ ??y?<]v? ? ? ?A??? J???? d~??? ] ???9H?@ ?tP> ??

Or, I tried to post to my blog from my phone, and it didn't work.

One or the other.

Here's what this post was ACTUALLY supposed to say:

In a cab right now. The cabbie is definitely hitting on me:

"What's your name? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you like Indian food?" says the (Indian) cab driver.

I'm playing along...what else am I gonna do while trapped in a cab? Blog? (Editor's note: Apparently, can't do that either...)

Then he asks my age. So I coyly reply, "Guess.."

He guessed 35!!!!!! Then mentioned that drinking Diet Coke makes you fat! Guess what I'm drinking right now!!!!

Smooth, Cabbie frog...real smooth. You don't even get a fake number now...

(Editor's note, part 2: Although he did give me his "business card" at the end of the ride, which I promptly trashed.)

How to lose a girl in 10 seconds

As you may have noticed from the lack of posts lately, I have not been dating recently. Not that I don't want to, but with starting school and a new job, I just haven't had the time.

But now that things are finally starting to calm down, I am back on the prowl. Blonde Roommate suggested I try OkCupid for my next venture, so I put up a profile, answering questions like "What do you like to do on Friday nights?" by explaining that I often throw a potluck dinner for my friends, and other things like that which make me awesome.

Less than an hour later, I had a new message in my inbox.

Woohoo! Maybe this is the website I've been looking for!

What did the message say?

"Whoa pot luck dinners? R u 50? Ha"

Charming...

An Oldie, but a Goodie

Wow...it's been a long time since my last post! I don't really have an excuse, except for this week, when my adorable 3-year-old goddaughter came to visit (with her parents, of course...but she's much cuter).

As I was chasing this beautiful baby girl around New York City, I realized that the experience was very similar to being on a date- it's a very exciting prospect which sometimes becomes a wonderful, magical experience, but sometimes just tires you out and wears you down until you just want to crawl under your comforter for a week to get some peace and quiet

You may have noticed that the majority of my dates are in the later category.

Including one which took place many moons ago (about three years, to be precise). I had recently attended my very first speed dating event, where I met a guy who we'll call Bob the Builder Frog, as an homage to his job in construction and the fact that I watched way too much Nick Jr. this weekend. Bob seemed nice enough during our five minute conversation, so I agreed to meet him for drinks later that week.

Bob emailed me and asked if I liked beer. I told him that I did not. He then suggested a bar in the West Village well known for its beer variety. I reiterated that I do not like beer.

"Oh" he said, "Well, I think they have wine, too"

Turns out they did have wine- one type of red sold by the glass from a bottle that tasted like it had been left out for days. I sipped from my glass sullenly while I waited for Bob to show up. When he finally approached, I was shocked by how much shorter he was than I had remembered.

Well, I am on a barstool...

So I climbed down...and realized that he was still a solid 6 inches shorter than me. And I was wearing flats.

I guess I should have thought to stand up at some point during our speed date.

We proceeded to a table where he ordered three different beers "so I could try them".

Did I mention I don't like beer?

I could tell this was not going to be a very productive evening, but figured I might as well see if I could get some free appetizers or something out of it.

That didn't happen, of course, but I did find out that Bob can down him some beer, and that he has tattoos on his calf and his shoulder, neither of which his parents know about.

Which is interesting, because he

Say it with me now!

LIVES WITH HIS PARENTS!

I really need to start making different mistakes...

Anyway, the date ended abruptly when I went to the restroom and came back to Bob already standing and heading towards the door, having thrown some cash onto the table.

His last words before he turned and walked away?

"Nice to meet you. You can finish my beer if you want."

A Modest Proposal

Loyal Readers, I am happy to inform you that Librarian Frog has been officially dumped back into the dating pond.

But not without a final dose of supreme awkwardness...

Sunday afternoon marked Date #4, and I was completely prepared to enjoy a delicious lunch (because I picked the restaurant) and then politely inform Librarian that I did not ever want to see him again.

But my plan was foiled when I turned the corner to the restaurant and saw him waiting outside

with flowers.

Call me a softy, but I just can't bring myself to tell a guy who has just brought me flowers to take a hike...

So we finally reach the end of the date. He attempts to make out with me in front of the building where the family I was about to meet for a potential babysitting job lives, then he proceeds to grab my shoulders, look me straight in the eyes, and say

"I think we should make this official"

wha wha wha WHAT?!?!?!

My incredibly eloquent response? "I...ummm...gotta go!"

At which point I turned, ran into the building, gave the flowers to my potential employer (it was, coincidentally, her birthday, so bonus points for me!) and began to draft the "it's not you...well, actually, it is you" email that I sent today.

A Dilemma

We are now approaching date #4 with Librarian Frog, and frankly, I don't know what to do about this one...

You see, I'm used to my usual pattern of one or two dates, followed by some crazy and ridiculous happening on the part of the Frog that makes it very easy for me to run screaming into the hills (or across avenues, as the case may be).

Don't get me wrong; Librarian has had his fair share of weirdness- the stalker phone calls continued until the second date, at which point I told him to cease and desist. But then he just came up with new ways to be clingy. Note that these events happened after date #3:

Example #1: We're chatting online, sending links to each other with date activity suggestions, and he sends me a link to a weekend wine tour in the Finger Lakes of Upstate New York. I respond that I don't think I know him well enough to go on a weekend trip. He responds, "Maybe next month".

Example #2: I am discussing a kayaking trip that a friend and I have been planning for weeks, and Librarian Frog says, "Well, it's a good thing you didn't invite me, because I'm scared of water."

Why in the WORLD would I invite someone I've met three times to come with me on a previously-arranged day trip? Who in their right mind goes on a weekend trip with someone they've only met THREE TIMES?!?!?

Also, who develops a phobia to water after falling out of a bunk bed during a storm on a cruise at the age of nine? Yes, that was Librarian's explanation for his fear of water...

sigh On the other hand (paw? flipper? webbed foot? What is that part of frog anatomy called?), he is a good conversationalist and is obviously either really interested or really desperate (and what's the difference, really?), so I feel bad turning those good traits down...

Yet I have a feeling that this Librarian could very easily recategorize himself from "Goofy Romantic" to "Creepy Glenn-Close-in-Fatal-Attraction Psycho".

I think it's time to hop to the next lily pad...

Speaking of stalking...

So, I went on a date yesterday with a gentleman we'll call Librarian Frog, after his chosen profession. It was pretty uneventful- some decent conversation, some awkward moments (especially at the end, when he went in for a kiss, I turned, and he caught one-third of my bottom lip and half of my chin). Not blog-worthy, but not fantastic. I figure I'll give the guy at least one more chance to become one or the other.

That is, if he doesn't have some kind of psychotic break because I didn't talk to him immediately after our date.

It started harmlessly enough with an email he sent after last night's date, simply saying he had a great time and hoped to see me again blah blah blah. A little soon after the date to initiate contact in my opinion, but at least an email is relatively unobtrusive. And it just feels less creepy and stalker-ish.

Then I missed a call from him today at 9am. And 11am. And 2pm. And 9:45pm (ok, that one I saw and ignored).

After the last call, he left the following message, as transcribed from my answering machine (because I am that devoted to you, loyal readers):

Hello Sexless, How are you? It's Librarian Frog. It is about a quarter to ten Sunday night. Umm...I didn't hear back from you, umm...I hope it's not a bad thing, umm...I hope you had a good time yesterday because I did and I was hoping to talk to you today...umm...I don't wanna make this more complicated than it has to be. If for whatever reason you're not interested, I understand. If you could just send me a quick email, and I will go away. But I hope you're just busy and haven't gotten around to calling me back. So one way or another, I look forward to hearing from you soon. Have a good night, and Bye.

Well, damn. Talk about low self-esteem! I called the poor kid back so that he wouldn't be tempted to leap out a window or anything, and set up a date for Thursday, at which point he thought it prudent to remind me that, if I wanted to talk to him before then, just to say hi or whatever, I could call. Or email.

Or presumably send one of the carrier pigeons I have left over from Raspberry Beret.

Did I mention that this poor kid is 36 years old?

Oh, I didn't?

Maybe he is blog-worthy after all...

A Raspberry Beret Update

Remember this frog?

After our ill-fated date, I severed all contact- blocked his Yahoo messages, Gmail chats, and Facebook friend requests, burned his letters and shot down his carrier pigeons.

Ok, he didn't actually try to Gmail Chat with me...

He did, however, send a Facebook friend request

To my dog.

I leave it to you to decide whether it is more pathetic that my dog has a Facebook, or that my awful date tried to stalk me through my dog.

Where do I get me one of these?!?

If only it came with an attractive partner...

http://www.yourtango.com/20086626/lose-your-virginity-kit

Cake Conundrum

Sometimes a frog does something so weird, so random, so downright strange that you can do nothing but stare at him in amazement and wonder how in the world you could be dating someone who would do something like that.

Let's take the case of Cake Frog. I had been on a few dates with him, and things were going well. His only real flaw at this point seemed to be chronic extreme tardiness- we're talking 2 or 3 hours late for plans.

When I invited him over for dinner at my place with some friends, I begged him to be on time because I wanted him to make a good impression on my friends...

By which, of course, I mean The Roommates.

Hell hath no fury like roommates who don't like your new date.

He promised that he would be on time, even early. In addition, he promised that he would bring a homemade cake. He boasted about his secret recipe to making a delicious vegan banana-filled layer cake, which sounded intriguing, if not delicious, because really?

Vegan cake? It's like decaffeinated coffee- it works, but what's the point?

But I digress.

So, the big day finally comes. I get a call an hour before dinner from Cake Frog saying that he'll be a few minutes late because he is dropping his sister off at a friend's house and still needs to run home to get the cake.

Alright, I say. That's fine. He's helping out family, and he called in advance.

An hour passes. Then two. I call again. He's hit traffic and will be another hour.

Mind you he lives in Queens. Remember our geography lesson? There would have had to have been a 75 car pile up hit by a train on fire during a hail storm to keep someone in traffic for three hours.

I'm starting to get very nervous. Then he finally shows up

With a beautiful white cake box, inside of which was a perfectly decorated layer cake resting on a silver doily.

He apologized profusely for being late and immediately began trying to charm my roommates when Brunette asked what had made him so late (subtle, that one...)

"Oh, I had to drop my sister off at a friend's. And I was working so hard on this cake..."

Brunette stares at it and asks, as sweetly as she can, "Wow! You made that?"

"Yes," he grins proudly. "And there's no butter and no eggs."

"Amazing!" adds Blonde. "And what's inside?"

"Bananas" states Cake Frog.

When we finally slice into the cake, we discover that, not only is it WAY too fluffy to be vegan, but the filling is

Strawberries and Pineapple.

As soon as Cake Frog departs, the Roommates descend on the cake remains of the cake like buzzards.

"There is NO way he made that! It looks too nice!"

"He didn't even know what was in it!"

"He was three hours late and didn't even bother to bring a homemade cake?"

"And then OBVIOUSLY lied about it?"

"Why would someone do that?!?!"

Dear reader, rest assured that I did not stick around long enough to find out what would possess a person to do such a silly, silly thing...

The Aftermath

Luckily, our high school's Drama Club was also in New York that week, so we spent a lot of time running around the city with them. He largely ignored me, and I busied myself with volunteering to chaperone some of the kids to various tourist sites. I sent him back home with a kiss and the hope that we could figure out exactly what was going on once he was back at college and we had some time and space separating us from the awkwardness of the situation.

We spoke on the phone a few times over the next week. He blamed his behavior on stress, feeling uncomfortable with a new place and new situation...frankly, everything except alien abduction.

As I was hanging up the phone after one of our talks, I said "I love you", as I had plenty of times before. And he did not respond.

Then he didn't answer or return my calls for the next few days.

Then I received a Facebook message from a friend of mine who also happened to be one of Broadway's housemates. In the message, she expressed her condolences on Broadway and I's breakup.

Wait....

What?!?!?!? When did we break up?!?!?

These were my first words to my dear, sweet friend when I called her and demanded to know what Broadway had told her. She hemmed and hawed and insisted that I talk to him directly.

Of course, he ignored my call, but I left a message demanding that we talk NOW and, low and behold, I received a call about an hour later.

At first, he refused to acknowledge that he had told his friends at school that we had broken up. When directly confronted, he hemmed and hawed and finally, FINALLY (I'll spare you all of the details of this three hour call, dear readers) admitted that

You (and my roommates, and my brother, and...well...any of my friends or family members who had met him) guessed it...he's gay.

I know, I know...I should have known. Everyone else did. But what could I do? He was popular, attractive, friendly, intelligent, fun...and he really, genuinely seemed to like me.

Right up until the point when he decided to leave me lying half naked in a pool of my own naivete because he had a mutual male friend of ours who was equally unclothed and willing back at school.

To be fair, I didn't find out about that until much later.

It also took me a while to find out that my roommates had used a gay male friend of ours to try to seduce him over spring break to find out if he really was gay or not. At first, I was upset by this, and if I had written this post a year ago, I probably would have suggested to anyone in a similar situation to tell your friend that the person she's dating isn't *ahem* right for her.

But, you know? I wouldn't have listened if they had. I probably just would have been angry and resentful. And I might have lost wonderful friends who were helping in the best way they knew how.

Which brings me to the morals of this tale:

If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's almost certainly a duck.

and

Good friends are always there fore you, whereas boyfriends my hop away at any moment.

The Spring Break from Hell, Part III

Later that evening, after a sullen dinner at New York's famous Stardust Diner (a 50's themed restaurant featuring waiters/waitresses who sing and dance),

...oh, why was it sullen? Because I refused to let Broadway pay for dinner, and I suppose he felt emasculated...

we got back to the dorm, and he said that he was going to go down to one of the practice rooms to "sing off some steam"...

Remember, we met in Drama club, and he was a theatre major in school.

And yes, my dorm had practice rooms. I'm not even going to lie and say that wasn't a major factor in my college decision making.

Anyway, back to lil' ol' me, alone in my bedroom while Broadway was belting out showtunes downstairs to repair his damaged manhood. I went to my dresser and reached deep down into the bottom of my underwear drawer, where I had hidden a lacy white bra and panty set that I had found in the sale bin at Victoria's Secret the month before, and a condom that I had snagged from the student health center- if I recall correctly, it might even have been flavored.

I snuck into the bathroom and donned my lacy ensemble. I sucked in my gut, touched up my mascara and put on some sexy red lipstick purchased just for the occasion. Then I decided that the lipstick was a bit much and blotted it down to almost nothing before applying my usual pink gloss.

I brushed and touseled my hair, applied some glitter lotion to the curve of my breasts (I had read in Cosmo that it makes your cleavage look better), and smiled at the sexy girl in the mirror who would, soon enough, become a woman.

After a quick glance to see if any of my suitemates were lurking in the hallway, I dashed into my bedroom and arranged myself on my bed in a way (probably suggested by Cosmo) that I hoped would maximize my curves while minimizing my, well, less-desirable curves. I had just finished fanning my hair across the pillow and placing the condom in an accessible, yet not too obvious position on my dresser when I heard the door open.

I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep as I listened to Broadway's footsteps approach the bed. I heard them stop and opened my eyes slowly, trying to feign both sleepiness and surprise.

As Broadway's form appeared in my vision, I glanced up at him in what I hoped was a seductive manner and smiled.

He glared back and sighed.

"Move over. And please cover up. We obviously need to talk."


...


...





Go ahead. Listen to as many types of crickets as you need to before continuing. I'll understand, because I was hearing nothing but crickets and the sound of shame flushing over my cheeks as I pulled myself into as tiny a ball as I could and cocooned myself in my comforter.

Broadway then proceeded to explain how he was sorry for the way he reacted, he was just so shocked because he wasn't ready to take our relationship that far, blah blah blah. All I could really hear was the sound of my own voice berating myself for being so stupid to think that anyone would want to sleep with me and for being so damn needy and for wasting all of that money on my sexy underwear, even if it was on sale...

Yes, even in moments of shame and guilt (hell...ESPECIALLY in moments of shame and guilt), I remain a stereotypical Jew.

Next thing I knew, Broadway put his arm around my shoulders and placed my head on his chest. I suppose it was supposed to be a consolation prize. I suppose I should have been happy for any physical intimacy at all. But all I could do was lie still and try not to cry my girlish tears for the woman I was supposed to become with the man I thought I loved.

The Spring Break from Hell, Part II

The anxiously awaited day finally arrived- at T-minus 4 hours to Broadway's arrival, I went to my favorite salon to get my nails "did" (as we say down here beneath the Mason-Dixon), fixed my hair and makeup just so, and put on a brand new outfit made of one of Broadway's favorite fabrics in his favorite color.

I took the train to Newark Airport and nervously played with my hair and re-applied lipstick until his plane arrived. My heart was leaping from my chest as I imagined our reunion: I would run straight into his arms, where he would lift me into a passionate embrace and treat me to the type of kiss that makes cameras pan and spin.

When I saw his lithe form walking across the terminal, I prepared for my running leap,

then quickly backpedaled as I saw him in deep conversation with an "old friend" he had run into on the plane. When they finally completed their conversation, he obligingly turned his attention to me and gave me a sweet, yet completely undeserving of creative camera angles, kiss.

We chatted and held hands as we waited for his luggage, got in the cab, and drove back to my dorm, where Broadway promptly curled up on the couch we had set up for him and fell asleep.

"Alright, that's fine", I thought. "He's had a long day. We'll make up for it tomorrow!"

For you see, dear readers, Broadway was sleeping on the couch that night out of respect for Blonde Roommate (yep...we were randomly assigned as freshman roommates and have been attached at the hip ever since!). However, Blonde would be gone for the next few nights and had graciously given her consent for Broadway to sleep in her bed.

I hope I don't need to explain the thought process behind that.

So, the next morning, I woke Broadway up with the best wake-up call a man can get:

Tickets to The Lion King!

What did you think I was going to say?

Anyway, he was thrilled, and we had a wonderful time at the show, which he enjoyed immensely. All he could talk about the rest of the day was how much fun he had and how awesome I was. I wouldn't have been able to wipe the smile off my face with an ice skate blade.

Until I was.

After the show, I decided to take Broadway ice skating. We had tried to go a few times back home, but it had never worked out, so I figured this was a perfect opportunity. I am a decently okay figure skater (read: I can do basic jumps and spins, but they ain't pretty), and was looking forward to a romantic, hand-in-hand skate while I showed him the ropes.

Little did I know that he was a competitive roller-blader as a kid. He jumped on the ice at full speed and never even glanced back as I sullenly practiced my spins and jumps.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Really, Sexless? This is the Spring Break from Hell? I'll admit it's not picture perfect, but come on..."

Well, put yourself in the mindset of a lonely, virginal college freshman who has spent a large sum of cash to fly your long-distance boyfriend up to visit you, and all he has done the entire time is act standoffish. Wouldn't you be a little pissed?

Well, I was. But I wasn't giving up yet. Remember...this evening, the bedroom would be all mine, and I had quite an attention-grabber up my sleeve.

Unfortunately, I was the one whose attention would get a whiplash-inducing grab.

A Confession

I must admit, my dear readers, that I have been misleading you over the last few weeks:

I have not been truly single. I was actually dating a gentleman who I will call Exotic Frog, as he hails from a mysterious, far-away land.

And yes, he has an accent. And is extremely sweet and patient and understanding and attractive...pretty much perfect in every way.

Except that he's...well...

Boring.

This guy carries on a conversation the way a rusty bucket carries water; he tries, but it just doesn't work. He has the uncanny ability to answer the most probing, open-ended questions with a simple yes or no before steering the conversation to such fascinating topics as "How was your day?" and "What class do you have tomorrow?"

I've never understood when people say that they like bad boys- it seemed so stupid. Why in the world would any girl in her right mind push aside a sweet, wonderful guy in favor of an asshole?

Well, now I know. At least assholes are entertaining.

At least I get good stories out of assholes.

In any case, I ended it with Exotic Frog this weekend, so now I'm free to go on even more miserable dates for your reading pleasure!

But first, stay tuned for Part II of the Spring Break from Hell...coming soon!

The Spring Break from Hell, Part I

Before I start this story, let me apologize for taking a bit of a break from blogging; I was busy GRADUATING FROM COLLEGE! As Conveniently Located Friend told me the night of graduation, "Even if you don't ever accomplish anything else in your life, at least you have a college degree!"

Quite the motivational speaker, that one...

The conferring of my undergraduate degree has me reminiscing about the beginning of my college career- an innocent time in which subways were foreboding tunnels of mystery, swiping my ID card in at the library was thrilling, and going to a Ukrainian diner for milkshakes at 4am seemed to be a perfectly reasonable thing to do. But my freshman year was not without its trials and tribulations.

As you may recall from this story, my first high school relationship got off to quite an...ummm...interesting start. But Broadway Frog and I did eventually start dating, and continued our relationship long distance when I moved to NYC for college and he stayed in our home state.

Living so far apart, we missed each other terribly, but only saw each other on school holidays. Broadway was your typical broke college student working in a restaurant on weekends, while I was lucky to have secured an interest-free loan from the Bank of Mom and Dad to support me through school. So for Broadway's birthday I surprised him with a trip to New York to visit me! I bought his plane ticket and tickets to two shows that I knew he would want to see. He was thrilled, and I was so excited I could hardly stand the month-long wait until his arrival and the subsequent departure of my virginity.

Well, we all know that didn't happen. But what did? Stay tuned to find out!

I am not the world's oldest virgin!

And, as I've mentioned before, there's always Julia Child.

But a woman should never let facts get in the way of some good ol' fashioned "Oh crap! I'm getting older and I'm going to be sad and alone for the rest of my life!" birthday angst.

I never thought of myself as the kind of person to have birthday angst. I've always loved my birthday. I had epic birthday parties as a kid, including a Nickelodeon themed party complete with a giant food fight and slime! I thought I was above all of that nonsense...plus, Blonde Roommate is a professional birthday angster, so I kinda figured I'd leave it up to her.

But then came the dreaded 2-3. Yeah, I know...it's not actually a significant birthday, but it hit me all at once that I'm graduating from college, going to graduate school, and that my next big birthday will be *gasp* 30!

All of that, combined with the fact that my mom got married when she was 24, led to a series of minor freak-outs culminating in my seriously considering having sex with a guy I barely know just so I would no longer be the weird virgin in my group of friends.

Luckily, I came to my senses and went speed dating instead.

Where I was involved in this little gem of a conversation:

Guy: "I want something to drink. What are you drinking?"
Me: "Rum and Coke"
Guy: "Oh, that sounds good. I like rum and coke. Maybe I'll get a rum and coke."
starts to walk towards bar
Guy: "Or a beer. Should I get a beer?"
Me: "Do you want a beer?"
Guy: "No. I hate beer."
Me: "Then why would you get it?"
Guy: "It comes in a bottle. Bottles are harder to spill. I don't want to spill my drink. That would be embarrassing." mimes staggering around and spilling a glass

On second thought, maybe being alone for the rest of my life isn't such a bad idea. I wonder how my dog would get along with cats...

Back to Before

Sorry it's been so long since the last post, folks. I've actually had this story on the back burner for a while, but I was saving it for a 20something Bloggers blogswap that, unfortunately, never happened. And I can't bear to keep it from you anymore!

Also, today is my 23rd (gasp!) birthday! There will definitely be commentary on my existential getting-older crisis, but not tonight. Because I actually had a wonderful birthday and am a little drunk, as one should be on any and all birthdays after one reaches the legal drinking age in their respective countries.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.

Yeah, more Broadway song lyrics. It's just how I roll. And I keep on rolling. Rolling on the river.

Ok, that wasn't Broadway. But they sang it on Glee, so it still counts.

ANYWAY...

My frog issues have been going on for many, many years. You heard a bit about my first frog experience from the beginning of high school, but my first serious boyfriend was not until my senior year of high school. And what a whopper of a tale that turned out to be...

Broadway Frog and I had been friends for quite a while, but we really connected in Drama Club, when we auditioned together for the roles of John and Elizabeth Proctor in The Crucible. The audition was magical- the rest of the auditorium melted away as we looked into each others' eyes and pledged our characters' undying love to each other. Once the audition was over, we realized that something special had occurred, and that we both felt a deep and passionate connection to the roles and to each other.

Remember, this is not just high school- this is high school drama club. The melodrama quotient is about 400% higher than in your average relationship.

But there was one problem: Broadway Frog was dating another girl. Being the only relatively attractive boy in Drama Club, Broadway Frog made his way around the ladies of Drama Club, and I was determined to be next.

But how? I was a shy and awkward, much less pretty and, shall we say, "delicate" than the other girls. So I did the only thing I knew how: I became his best friend.

Over the next few months, we hung out together all the time, sat together at lunch, went to each others' houses on weekends to watch movies, did homework together, the whole shebang. He shared that he was starting to grow tired of his latest Drama Queen flavor-of-the-month, and I did nothing to dissuade him from throwing her out onto the curb. I knew I could share my deepest, darkest thoughts with him...

Or at least I thought I could.

It was the day after my 18th birthday, and all of my friends were gathered outside of TGIFridays (the only place in town other than Waffle House that would be open after 10pm) for a big birthday celebration for myself and a friend, whose birthday would be the next day. Broadway Frog and I were standing outside of the restaurant chatting when I decided to share some fantastic news:

Let me pause for a second to explain. At the age of 17, I was diagnosed with an ovarian tumor, which was removed a few months later. I was out of school for nearly three weeks, but I hadn't told many people why, as I was pretty embarrassed at having a disease that is really only supposed to strike older women and had, in my mind, robbed me of what little femininity I had (and, most likely, my fertility).
I could have sworn that Broadway Frog was one of the people I had told.

Apparently not.

I had taken a blood test earlier that week to look for tumor markers, and it had come back negative, which was obviously very exciting! So I gave Broadway Frog the short version:

"I don't have cancer!"

Broadway Frog turned pale and his eyes grew wide.

"Wait...you thought you did have cancer?"

As I stuttered and stammered and started to explain, Broadway Frog turned away for a moment of reflection.

Or maybe to hide his tears of love for me.

Or throw up into the bushes, which is what actually happened

That's one way to make an impression on a potential boyfriend.

They named an article after me!

Or my blogging pen name (keyboard name?) is just not quite as original as I thought it was.

Seems that way back in 2003, WebMD published an article about involuntary celibacy: "otherwise healthy folks who want to have sex but can't make it happen in their lives"

It's actually nice to know that I'm not the only one out there who deals with this, but it was a little disconcerting to see that the article was published in the men's health section of the website.

Because women can get laid whenever they want to, of course! Just walk into a bar, and there's a gaggle of gorgeous (depending on the prescription on your beer goggles) guys waiting to sweep you off to bed. Think about every TV plot you've ever seen about folks trying to get laid- it's never the girls who are sitting around the table at the bar bemoaning their sexless fate.

Why is that? Is this really an exclusively male problem (with the stunning exception of myself)? Why am I asking all of these questions? Where did the funny bits of this blog go?

Don't worry- they'll be back soon...but right now, I need to go to bed so I can concentrate "on school and then [my] career" instead of trying to get laid.

A Change of Pace

It's been a busy couple of weeks up here in NYC. Spring has (finally!) sprung, bringing warm sun, beautiful flowers, and...tourists. I've had a couple of friends visiting me, which gives me a fantastic excuse to visit places like Ellis Island and Madame Tussaud's, and to discover fantastic new bars and other hangout spots. Now, if I would actually make the effort to break my routine and go to these places on a regular basis...

Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. If I'm going to do a bit of spring cleaning of my social life, I need to start small. How about a new kind of dating story for you folks?

It seems a bit cruel to be constantly harping on these poor tadpoles. As much as they deserve it, I'm not exactly a perfect date myself. Take my tenth grade homecoming, for example:

Picture, if you will, two young, awkward kids who have known each other as friends for many years. I have had a crush on the boy for, oh..., forever. He is an awkward 15 year old who is basically dating me because I'm the only girl who will talk to him.

Because we are both 15, we have to be driven to dinner and the dance by my mom. And, as we learned from Raspberry Beret, being driven to a date by your mom is never cool.

Awkward Boy chose a gas station for dinner. To be fair, it was an old gas station that had been converted into a restaurant. And it was one of the nicest restaurants in town, y'all!

So, there we are, all dressed up, staring at each other across an old picnic table inside an old gas station, picking at plates of fried chicken and trying to make conversation while my mom is sitting at a different table and pretending not to be there. I was trying desperately to make a good impression- I was hoping that this dance would be a magical, teen movie night, complete with my very first kiss, and I knew just what to do to make my dream come true...

I would be flirty! So, while the Boy was talking, I grabbed my glass of sweet tea and started playfully spinning the straw while gazing longingly into his eyes. I maintained my fabulously flirty eye contact while sexily licking my subtly parted lips. I bent toward my glass, making sure to display my decolletage, and grasped the straw

Or where I thought the straw was. But all I got was a less-than-sexy mouthful of air.

Determined to salvage the moment, I lifted the glass and reached my lips towards the straw.

And missed again.

But I was not to be defeated! I kept my eye contact and, as sexily as you imagine it would be, chased my straw around the glass with my tongue before finally getting the damned thing in my mouth.

Needless to say, that was the most action my lips got that night.

Raspberry Beret, Part II

I was about to turn and run when Beret waved and came over. So, I took a deep breath, put on my best smile, and waved back.

We sat down to dinner and started chatting. I knew he lived with his mother (which, as my loyal readers may recall from previous stories, is a bad sign), and I knew that his job was, shall we say, less than glamorous...

Unless, of course, your idea of glamour is being a parking garage attendant at a grocery store.

But I was hoping that there was a reason for these drawbacks. Perhaps he was a student? This is a very popular excuse for living with ones' parents and having a shitty job when one is over the age of 21. Perhaps he was even a graduate student. Maybe he was studying to be an architect, or a lawyer, or a philosopher, or...something.

Anything.

Apparently, the last time I took a college course was in 2006. School and I don't get along...

replied Beret to my query.

"What do you mean?" I asked, ignoring (for now) the incorrect use of the word "apparently".

Well, for example, when I took algebra in high school, I knew the quadratic formula...you know, a squared plus b squared equals c squared? But I couldn't figure anything else out...

Those of you who know anything about math may begin chuckling.

Now, anyone who knows me will tell you that my math skills are notoriously bad. I didn't know what the quadratic formula was, but I knew it wasn't that...

So, now we have a guy who lives with his mother, works as a garage attendant, and sucks even harder at math than I do.

Fabulous.

So, I asked him what his aspirations were for the future. He told me he wanted to be an actor or a writer. I had actually already guessed the actor part- he told his (very unfunny) jokes in the painfully forced manner of a bad actor at an audition, a trait which is not unique to New York City (and presumably Los Angeles), but is certainly very prevalent and very annoying here.

I asked about his writing. He proceeded to tell a ridiculously long and graphic story involving murder, rape, incest, and Mafia gangs.

We will now pause for a brief learning moment: Murder, rape, incest and the Mafia are not appropriate dinner conversation. Especially not on a first date. In an Italian restaurant. 

All while continually using the word "apparently" incorrectly. This amusing grammar tick was used more than 26 times.

I counted.

Upon finishing his story, he paused, closed his eyes, and put his hand over his heart.

Shit, I thought, He's having a heart attack. What's the protocol for that? I guess I could give him CPR. That's acceptable first-date behavior. But would I have to go with him to the hospital? Or could I just call 911 and sneak out the back?...

"Are you ok?" I asked.


Fine. Just give me a minute.


"Do you want to go outside or something?"

 No, he replied, now placing his other hand on his forehead. Eventually he opened his eyes and put his hands back on his lap.

"What happened?" I asked.

Well, you see, I'm really nervous, and sometimes when that happens, my body just stops working.

Right...

So, the date continued, and we prepared to leave. I asked how he would be getting home. He said he would probably just take a cab, unless he could find a phone to call his mother to come pick him up.

Did I mention that he doesn't have a cell phone? Homeless schizophrenic bums in Central Park have cell phones. Five-year-olds prancing around the Upper East Side on their way to day cares that cost more than most colleges have cell phones. 

This employed, adult man did not have a cell phone. With which to call his mother. To pick him up. From a date. 

He offered to walk me to the subway, and asked how I had enjoyed the date.

Learning Moment #2: If you have to ask how the date is going, it is not going well.

I said something to imply that I preferred the date to, say, poking my eye out with a rusty fork.

He then asked what kind of man I was looking for.

Not you.

"Oh, you know...I don't like to have a type...I think I'll know him when I see him..."

Yes, I am Grand Master of the evasive answer.

Did you see him tonight? Beret asked.

I was trying to come up with another masterfully evasive answer when I spied the subway. Sweet escape! I thought.

Until I realized he intended to follow me into the subway and wait with me for the train.

So, I was forced to mumble some bullshit about not really looking for a serious relationship right now, blah blah blah..."Oh look! There's my train! Bye now!"

As I darted away, I comforted myself with the knowledge that that would be the last I would hear from Beret Boy.

Until, of course, I received an email that night.

Which I did not respond to.

And a call the next day.

Which I ignored, and did not return.

And one last week, which I could not pick up, as I was in Spain, eyeing men who may still live with their mothers (can someone please tell me how European men manage to make that seem sweet and endearing?), but who at least know the proper art to beret wearing.

We apologize for the service interruption

but I was on vacation in beautiful, sunny Spain- land of delicious wine, a subway system approximately a million times nicer than that of New York, and beautiful men.

Oh, and fabulous dates!

The kind you wrap in bacon and put on a tapas tray...

Unfortunately for me, it's now time to head back to reality. Fortunately for you, that means that you will be reading the second part of my adventures with Raspberry Beret very soon!

Raspberry Beret (Part I)

The kind you find in a secondhand store...

The kind you hope not to find on the head of your date.

But that's exactly what I found on the head of my most recent frog, who we're going to call Beret Frog, because I don't have a symbol for The Frog Formerly Known As Prince on my keyboard.

The trouble began when we first discussed where to meet for our date after some friendly internet banter. I suggested coffee; he countered with dinner. That's fine with me; I am staunchly pro free food. I told him I live in Manhattan. He suggested a nearby Chinese buffet.

Nearby his house.

In the far reaches of Brooklyn.

Where he lives with his mother.

In case you were wondering: No, I do not learn from my previous mistakes.

For those of you who are not familiar with New York City geography, the city is made up of five regions known as boroughs: Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, Bronx, and Staten Island. Technically, it's all one city, but each borough might as well be its own continent. Manhattanites rarely leave their cozy little island, and residents of other boroughs pretty much only leave to go to Manhattan.

NYC dating etiquette (as determined by a very scientific poll of friends who came over for dinner one night last week) dictates that, when two people live in different boroughs, the man will travel to the woman's borough for at least the first date.

Not only did Beret insist that I go to his borough, he wanted me to go an hour and a half into his territory. Back where I'm from, an hour and a half of travel puts you in a different state!

We compromised on an Italian restaurant in a neutral territory of Brooklyn equidistant from our homes. He asked for my phone number "in case something came up". It seemed a reasonable request.

I didn't realize that "something" would come up every single day of the week before our date. From restaurant choice to reservation times, Beret could not seem to get the details of this date right.

After a few days and multiple ignored phone calls, the big day arrived. I showed up at the cute little Italian restaurant

and waited. For 20 minutes.

I left a message on his answering machine explaining that I would wait for ten more minutes before leaving, and was preparing to give up when a car pulled up in front of the restaurant.

I saw that the driver was an older woman and looked away to continue my search for the elusive Frog. When I glanced back, I saw a male figure exiting the car.

A male figure who looked suspiciously like the photos I had viewed online.

A male figure wearing a red silk suit with a red beret.

A male figure who had just been dropped off for our date by his mother.

I could tell this was going to be a fun evening.

Like dating, only faster

and more contrived. And expensive.

"All the stress and humiliation of a blind date, times twelve"- Frasier

Such is the world of speed dating.

It seems like a pretty good concept- instead of milling around a bar, thinking up convoluted ways to talk to people who may not even be interested in dating, you are seated for a set period of time across the table from someone who is definitely interested in dating and cannot run away.

Or so I thought until my most recent speed dating encounter.

I've been to a number of these events. Some were fun, some were dull, very few resulted in an actual date with any of the participants (and one that did was bad enough that it will definitely be featured on this blog at a later date...). But this particular speed dating event takes the cake.

Or the pie.

In the face.

I walked into the bar, a very nice little place which would end up being the best find of the night, to discover a group of lovely, well-dressed ladies looking sad and desperate. Even though that's basically what people who speed date are, I had never seen anyone actually looking that way- the normal look is more hopeful and desperate.

Then I met the hostess, who admitted that she had recently gotten the position off of Craigslist and had no idea what she was doing.

Ah ha!

In addition, there were way more women than men, so some of the women had to sit out during dating rounds and stare awkwardly at the wall.

Awesome.

I sat out first, and was given a complimentary glass of champagne by the (very cute, very uninterested) bartender because he felt sorry for me. I was feeling sorry for myself, but hopeful that I would find a very cute, very interested guy when I finally got into the game.

The first guy I met was cute, charming, funny, and gainfully employed. I was definitely starting to get my hopes up when he mentioned that he had found out about the evening's event through a friend of his,

The event organizer.

I thought that was a little suspicious, but I moved on to the next gentleman.

Who said the exact same thing.

Turns out, the only guy who had not been coerced into coming because they happened to be friends with the organizer was a recently single male friend who I had brought along, and had no intention of "dating".

But, because Flighty Craigslist Hostess was disorganized, we ended up on an especially long "date", during which she came over to tell us how she thought that speed dating was total bullshit and that we were stupid for having paid money to do what could be done for free at a bar.

Charming.

I had pretty much lost all hope (and patience) by my last date with yet another guy who had been coerced into coming to give us poor sad female saps some hope, and what little hope I had was dashed once I sat down.

And the guy shot up and asked if he could leave.

Fabulous.

And after all of this, I couldn't even convince the bartender to give me another pity drink.

Terrific.

Shot Down for the 975,000th* Time

*approximately

So, loyal readers, today I made yet another attempt to gather a good date story for you by talking to (rather, instant messaging) a young gentleman from eHarmony.

A cute, intellectual type who looks vaguely like Blonde's baby brother (wait? Is that weird?), we hit it off over a helping of eHarmony's expertly crafted pre-made questions, through which we discovered our shared interest in travel.

It was going swimmingly...

Until he asked for my picture.

Ready for another of Sexless's love lessons? When an online suitor asks for your picture, it's normally a bad sign. At best, it means they're kinda shallow. At worst, it means that they are willing to ignore good conversation and shared interests if you're "not their type".

Which is exactly what happened.

Rather, I assume that's what happened, since I sent him my picture and he immediately disconnected.

Oh, well.

Rest in peace, Frog-Who-Looks-Like-Blonde's-Baby-Brother. We hardly knew ye.

The Imperial Dating March

Star Wars - Imperial March  download at emp3

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Seriously? A Star Wars Geek. You didn't have the slightest inkling that that wasn't going to end well?"

Well, in my defense, this gentleman is SO much more than a Star Wars Geek. And I'm a bit of a geek myself, so I figured this had the potential to be a match made in Sci Fi heaven!

Star Wars Frog was yet another eHarmony conquest, and he seemed perfect on paper- an older, relatively attractive (albeit short) Jewish documentary film maker with family money. On the phone, he sounded extremely intelligent and had an adorable stutter. (Yes, gentlemen who stutter- girls think it's adorable!)

The trouble began when I texted that I would be about 10 minutes late, as my train was deciding to take its good sweet time showing up.

When I finally arrived (exactly 10 minutes late), I walked over to the table to find that Star Wars Frog had his napkin tucked into his shirt and was nearly finished eating his salad. When he saw me, he was gracious enough to drop his fork momentarily to shake my hand and offer this charming statement:

"So, I already started."

I was completely shocked, and probably should have turned around and walked away right then and there.

But then I wouldn't have such a great story for you folks!

So I sat down and attempted to make small talk:

"Have you been here before?"

"munch No munch munch munch"

"Oh, ok. Well, how was your day at work? Guess you were pretty busy?"

"munch munch No, it was fine. Why? munch"

"Well, you must have skipped lunch..."

"munch No, just hungry. munchity munch munch munch"

So, I ordered my meal and got my own salad to munch on while he regaled me with tales of his latest family vacation...

Now, remember Jersey Frog? And how I said you should be wary of adults who still live with their parents? I am officially extending this rule to include adults who still travel with their parents and bitch about it.

Granted, I still travel with my parents- because they can afford much nicer vacations than I can on my own. And yes, it can get irritating, but I suck it up because I love my parents and the fact that they are still willing to pay to take me to exotic locales.

See what I just did there? Interrupting my own conversation? That's exactly what Star Wars Frog did when he pulled out this gem in the middle of his fascinating vacation story:

"Sorry, I need to go to the bathroom."

Right. Now, as you may recall from previous experience, I just don't know when to quit. But I did have the common sense at this point to text my friend, who lives near the restaurant, to warn him that I would be coming over after dinner to consume his alcohol supply.

Upon Star Wars Frog's return from the restroom, he began to hum. First, under his breath. Then louder.

Loudly enough for the surrounding tables to hear and turn around to glare at us.

"Uh....what are you doing?" I asked with as much of a smile as I could muster through my gritted teeth.

"Oh...well, if I told you, it would probably scare you away."

"Try me."

"It's a song. From Star Wars. From the third movie..."

And then he goes into a long explanation of the exact location in the movie of the song. I fixed an interested half-smile on my face and let my eyes glaze over while I dreamed of all of the drinks I would make at Conveniently Located Friend's house

This conversation was mercifully interrupted by yet another bathroom break on the Frog's part.

From which he returned with his shirt tucked into his underwear.

I politely declined dessert and pleaded for the check with my eyes while Frog derided the role of my home state in the election of President George W. Bush loudly enough to elicit more awkward glares from surrounding tables.

Finally, the check was paid and we left. I asked which direction he was going so that I could ensure that I walked in the opposite direction. Rather then answer, he stuck out his hand, hailed a cab,

And got in. Without a single word.

All I could do was laugh as I jogged away to console myself with free alcohol.

Julie and Julia and Me

Tonight was date night! Unfortunately for you, it was date night with Blonde roommate. We had intended to go out and see a movie, but it is disgusting up here in NYC, so we stayed in with pizza and a movie on TV. The movie? Julie and Julia.

Duh, says Blonde as she reads over my shoulder.

Anyway, I figured it would be kind of funny to blog about a movie about a blog- it's very meta.

You're such a nerd! cries the peanut gallery.

As I was saying, it was a cute movie, and I especially liked the premise...

You mean promise...of love... swoons Blonde with a sarcastic sigh.

No, I mean premise, as in someone becoming rich and famous by writing a blog about something crappy in their life.

Yeah, whiny people get rich and famous!

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Blonde. This shall be the last time we team blog.

Unless, of course, you loyal readers tell me you like it, and that you would buy a book of this particular form of hilarity and make me so rich that I forget about my miserable personal life...

Any takers?

Thought not.

In any case, another interesting fact that I learned from the movie is that the great and fabulous Julia Child herself was a virgin until the age of 40!

Is that 40 factorial?

Who's the nerd now, Blondie?!?!

So yes, Julia Child was also afflicted with this particular curse. And she cooks better than I do.

That's debatable...

Oh, that you're going to put in!

Of course I am, darling Blonde. My blog, my rules. And I like compliments.

Also, Paul Child was kind of a douche about her virginity. Take this passage from Laura Shapiro's Julia Child (thanks, Google Books!):

"Paul found Julia 'extremely likeable and pleasant to have around,' but he had no intention of pursuing her romantically. She was a virgin,  he reported to Charlie, [his twin brother] and probably afraid of sex- [...] Here, he decided, was 'the traditional old maid of song and story,' subconsciously obsessed with sex but unable to handle the reality. 'I feel very sorry for her because while I see clearly what the cure is, I do not see clearly who will apply it,' he wrote."

And this is the guy who married her?!?!? What the hell did the people who didn't marry her think of her?!?

I'm screwed...

In fact, you're not.

Well, date night is still young, my dear...

*Technorati Claim Code YKQT53ATBGZ8
If you're not from Technorati, please ignore! 

Kourtney Kardashian and I are Soulmates

So, I'm watching "Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami", thanks to my dear roommate who thoroughly enjoys keeping up with the Kardashians. I refuse to admit that I secretly enjoy this schlock...

Anyway, in this riveting episode, Khloe auditions men to date her sister Kourtney, much to Kourtney's chagrin. Kourtney explicitly talks about her hatred of dating, particularly awkward first dates (ie my entire dating life). When Khloe tries to pump Kourtney up for her date, Kourtney just seems pissed.

I so relate to that. My other roommate...

You know what? This whole two roommate thing is going to get confusing. So, starting now, they will be Blonde Roommate and Brunette Roommate. Brunette is the one who keeps up with the Kardashians; Blonde is the one who tries to make me keep up to Kardashian-esque levels of mayhem.

So, my other roommate Blonde roommate likes to try to pump me up for dates by doing exactly what Khloe did- coming in while I'm getting dressed and asking me if I'm excited and making kissy faces.

I react the same way Kourtney does- whining and making sad faces and threatening to punch any man who comes anywhere near me with a kissy face.

Blonde seems to think this is a bad reaction. But I say, if it's good enough for Kourtney Kardashian, it's good enough for me! She has a baby, so she's definitely gotten laid at least once...

Fixed?

Went to an engagement party last night for two wonderful friends of mine. It was a lovely dinner, but it seems there is nothing like celebrating another persons' future happiness with alcohol to bring out the bitter in a bunch of single girls...

Case in point: I got at least three compliments on this here blog (Yay, ego points!) from various party goers. However, they all mentioned that they were not able to post comments. I guess now would be a good time to mention that, in addition to being stupid in love, I'm tech stupid. So, I played with some settings, and I think I have fixed the problem...

So, let me know what you think! Comment away!

A Trip to the Jersey Frog Pond (Part III)

So, we made it to date three. I dragged myself onto NJ Transit upon his request to not always be the one traveling, which was really a mistake on his part, as the humidity of public transportation melts not only my hair and make-up, but a good portion of my goodwill towards men.

So I arrive in Jersey City (or was it Newark? Paramus? Who the hell cares?) where Jersey Frog declares that he will be taking me to a great little restaurant he's picked out.

"Wow!" I think, "This is turning out really well!"

And as we waltz hand-in-hand down the sidewalk of Main Street Jersey-Newark-Paramus City, visions of wedding bells dancing in my head, we turn in to an adorable little pub, decorated with dark wood and faux gas lanterns.

The hostess leads us up a winding staircase to a spacious, elegantly decorated room with floor-to-ceiling picture windows looking out to the water and the Manhattan skyline. I am extremely impressed, and say as much to Jersey Frog, who I notice is shifting uneasily in his chair.

Just as I begin to glance at the scrumptious looking menu, I hear a whisper from his end of the table.

"Ummm....do you want to stay here?"

"Of course!" I blurt out, "It's beautiful, and the menu looks great!" I tear my eyes away from the menu and towards his face, where I notice beads of sweat forming on his brow.

"What's wrong?"

At this point, I am getting a little annoyed. I understand that he didn't realize how expensive the place was (which it was, but only as compared to the burger joints we had eaten in on our first two dates), but I was also curious as to why he did not research that in the first place, if money was such an issue.

So, we had arrived at a crossroads. The way I saw it, he could either suck up his mistake and treat me to a nice meal, or he could ask if I might mind paying my half. I figured either choice was the acceptable, manly thing to do.

And then he decided to go for option three:

"Well...um...I...uh...I don't like this kind of food..."

I glanced at the menu again. "Really? You don't like steak? Or chicken?..."

"I...uhhh...you know...fancy food. I don't like fancy food."

At which point I had to literally bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying, "Oh! You mean good food! You don't like good food! Got it!" But I refrained and instead tried to lead him towards one of the more acceptable options:

"Well, if you're concerned about the price, I would be happy to pay for myself."

At this point, he turns bright red and glares at me. "It's not the money. It's the food. Let's go." He then abruptly pushes himself away from the table, almost knocking over the startled waitress who was trying to bring us some water.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

"We...uhh....we need to leave. Bye," he stammers as he literally runs down the stairs.

Mortified, I apologize to the waitress and follow him out the door, where I walk in stony silence as he leads me to a dingy sports bar, where he proceeds to order yet another burger and scarf it down without even a morsel of good conversation. I had a better chat with the waiter, who would have made the much better date except that he looked like a pirate (not in the Johnny Depp sense- in the long hair, long beard, haven't-showered-for-days sense).

At the end of the meal, Cheapo Frog walked me to the train station, where he proceeded to grab me and lock me into the most slobbery, disgusting, needlessly long kiss I have ever had the displeasure of being involved in. As he tried to reach for more, I wiggled out of his grip and ran down the stairs as fast as I could.

As I sat in the disgusting humidity of the train, obsessively chewing gum to try to rid my mouth of the taste of frog breath, I tried to at least think of something I had learned from this experience. I came up with the following words of wisdom:

• If you get a weird vibe on the first date, he might be worth a second chance. But if he's still weird on the second date, RUN!
•  If a man has never moved out of his parents' house, RUN!

And, read carefully, gents:

• If you want a taste of that sweet, sweet milk, you would be wise not to trick your cow into thinking you're capable of providing the Prime Rib when all you're really worth is a burger. 

A Trip to the Jersey Frog Pond (Part II)

So, Jersey Frog got a second chance. Despite the minor annoyances of the first date, he seemed like a nice guy, if a bit shy and withdrawn. I was convinced that if I could just pull him out of his shell, he might be my dream guy- the love of my life, the ice cream to my apple pie...

I suppose I should take a moment to mention that I don't really have a "dating" mindset. I tend to think of men as either total losers, great friends or future husbands; there's no real middle ground in my twisted brain.

There's nothing wrong with that, right? Men aren't totally freaked out by that, right?

Crap.

Anyway, my brilliant plan was to bring along two friends of mine to make it a double date. The male half of this particular couple worked in the same field as Jersey Frog, a field about which I know nothing and care even less, as it deals with numbers, which may be the scariest objects on the planet, and I hoped that the presence of other people would take some pressure off so that his sparkling personality could shine through.

Which is exactly what happened...in an alternate reality in which this is a blog about my awesome dating life.

What actually happened is that Jersey Frog became even more closed off than before. He chewed on yet another cheeseburger and gave one word answers and assorted grunts to any question posed to him while awkwardly trying to cozy up to me. When I didn't return his displays of affection, he pouted and, according to my friends, made pathetic puppy dog faces.

As a matter of fact, the only time his answers became more elaborate was when he was discussing his family, which he did almost exclusively. Now, don't get me wrong- I love my family. They're big and loud and they drive me crazy, and I couldn't imagine life without them. But as much as I adore them, I don't talk about them

All the time and to the exclusion of nearly everything else.

Especially not in elaborate detail requiring the use of family trees in order to avoid the stifling of yawns and such fascinating statements as "Wait, whose brother is Uncle Larry? And he's the diabetic? Oh, that's right...he's a dietitian..."

It was at this point that he also revealed that he still lives with his parents.

Now, before I get shouts of outrage from all of you in the North East, I am fully willing to admit that living in the Tri-State area is stupidly expensive, and that it is completely rational to stay at home for a little while in order to save money. But I draw the line at living with your parents not only throughout college, but during the first five years after graduation, when you have a job that pays perfectly adequately, with no solid plan to move out.

But hindsight is 20/20, and I was willing to overlook yet another annoying and suspicious trait in the hopes that it would turn out to be a cute (yet still suspicious) trait. Keep in mind the amount of desperation at play here.

So, you guessed it...Jersey Frog gets another chance...

But just as in baseball (another topic about which I know nearly nothing...), there's only three strikes before you're out...

Apparently, I'm not the only one having problems!

A New York Times report on the shortage of good, college-aged men.

Sigh.


http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/07/fashion/07campus.html?scp=6&sq=college&st=cse

A Trip to the Jersey Frog Pond (Part I)

Every once in a while, a gentleman takes a while to reveal his warts and actually cons me into more than one date. Our dear Jersey Frog was one such guy.

This one was found wallowing in the pond known as JDate.

"Oh, a nice Jewish boy!" you (and my mom) exclaim.

Nope. A nice Christian boy. Who likes Jewish girls. Because he enjoys being nagged and force fed?

This should have been my first clue.

But he was tall and cute, if a bit overweight. Not that that matters to me. If anything, I like when a guy is fatter than me, because it makes me look thin.

Unfortunately, he didn't share this opinion. From the beginning of the evening, all he would talk about was how much he was trying to lose weight, and exercise, and diet. Actually, he only paused this topic of conversation to order and eat his dinner.

A bacon cheeseburger and onion rings.

Annoying? A bit. But not a deal breaker. So, after a sweet little hug, I agreed to meet him again.

What an adventure that would turn out to be...

Let's Start At The Very Beginning

It is, after all, a very good place to start. And yes, I have considered that one of the reasons I am single is my propensity for quoting musicals.

It also does not help that I don't love to drink, hate clubs, and rarely leave my house except to attend school, theatre and classical music concerts (see the above musicals comment).

"So how do you expect to meet straight, single men?" you (and my roommates and my mom) cry.

Why, the internet, of course!

You can see where this is going...

The subject of Story Number One, who will be referred to as Acne Frog, was one such internet meeting. He was tall and handsome...in his picture, anyway. In real life, he was short, had horrific breath, and was covered in the kind of acne that gets your head flushed in a toilet in middle school.

But he seemed so nice online, and I was still a gullible girl from south of the Mason-Dixon line, so I went to Starbucks with him anyway.

Where twenty minutes into our date, he leans over and attempts to stick his disgusting, presumably acne covered, tongue down my throat!

And if that doesn't seem sufficiently inappropriate to you, you are not from the South. Find your closest redneck or belle and have them explain good ol' fashioned Southern manners to you.

It's ok. I'll wait.

Of course, you're thinking "So, that's it, right? You slapped him and stormed out of Starbucks!"

Wrong.

This poor, gullible Southern belle thought that he might reform his ways after being told (very politely, I might add) to back the hell off. But of course he didn't. As we walked out of the Starbucks towards a park, he grabbed my hand. I, stupidly, let him. And to my great relief, once we sat on a park bench, he let go of my hand.

To grab my breast.

"Have you slapped him yet?"

Nope. Poor, gullible and, might I add, desperate.

I waited until he grabbed my thigh, tried to pull me into him, and told me that he wanted to get to know me better physically to run straight for the nearest subway train.

Lesson learned: Even the thickest layer of Southern charm cannot turn a frog into a prince.

Once Upon a Time...

there was a beautiful princess who lived in a magical land. Ok, she was overweight and average-looking on a good day. And she lived in a podunk Southern town most well-known for bible colleges and military presence.

Anyway, she was very unlucky in love. Try as she might, she just could not find the prince to sweep her off her feet. It probably didn't help that the first prince she dated turned out to be a Queen.

So she decided to try her luck in the far away and truly magical land of New York City. Because she somehow thought that being a Nursing major with an Educational Theatre minor at one of the most openly gay universities in the United States would help her find the heterosexual man of her dreams.

Obviously, that worked out.

As depressing as she finds her horrific dating misadventures to be, her friends and family find them hilarious, and encouraged her to compose a blog to share the hilarity with others.

Enjoy.