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...

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