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.