People (read: my boyfriend) often ask me why I still check my OkCupid account, given that I’ve been in a relationship for three years.  Honestly, it is out of boredom 87% of the time.  My other social networking sites offer little to nothing in the way of consistent interaction with others, but despite my status as “seeing someone” and “unavailable” on OKC, I still get at least one fairly entertaining message in my inbox every day.  A man who calls himself jitlove from scenic Ahmadabad, India contacts me once a week with charming correspondence like “hiiiiiiii (sic),” “hi how r u (sic)” and “hi (sic).”  tony4ny also asks “hi how r u (sic)” on a regular basis, and he likes to follow up with “hi howcome (sic) no news? reply when you get the chance pretty.”  Note that the messages rarely change in content, spelling, punctuation or number of i’s; they know the power of copy and paste.  I don’t mind them sending me things- the beautiful part of internet dating is that rejection never has to occur face to face and can be done silently.  I’ve never felt an urge to reply to anything until a few days ago, when I received not one, not two but THREE emails in one day, including this one:

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…Well maybe not once MORE, but definitely once.  When faced with the prospect of sitting in a room with my fellow Americans to perform that most sacred of civic duties, I immediately knew that this would be a great opportunity to BLOG, because I’M A CHILD OF THE 21ST CENTURY.  Little did I know that blogging is strictly verboten in these hallowed chambers.  So, this combination liveblog/stream of stray observations will be brought to you after the fact, straight from courtroom 261, Brooklyn. [UPDATE: and several other places.]


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Your Rafiqis food

is not a balanced breakfast;

you smell garlicky.

(Also, where the hell is there a Rafiqis in Brooklyn?)


The dulcet tones of

Dave Matthews covers, always

drowned by the saw gal.


Blind man belts oldies

and doesn’t feel the dollar

fall into his pail.


Spare Change guy: where do

you get your fly kicks? Surely

not with quarters, right?


Bachata, screaming

from a young woman’s headphones

kids must be so deaf.


I know you’re real tired,

smelly, drunk old lady, but

please don’t sleep on me.

100 bonus points to you if you know the above reference!

Today brings us to the last in a series of somewhat comic single-life misadventures. As the summer of 2008 ground to a close, I began to take serious stock of my obsessive search for a mate. My methods were clearly not working and while it would have been easy enough to blame the general male populace in the New York Metro area for sucking SO HARD, it was mostly my own fault that I was still single. Scheduling 3 dates with 3 different men every weekend was just confusing and it was getting really difficult to keep them all straight in my brain. My wallet was certainly suffering from being such a 21st century gal and worst of all, my friends were beginning to notice my slowly building lunacy. I tacitly decided to stop the months-long manhunt after this final tale (another where I behave kind of badly):

In Which Our Heroine Learns About the Dangers of Making Out with a Man in a Dark Club and Going Out With Him Later

There is this shitty bar/club on the Lower East Side called Home Sweet Home that was my absolute favorite place at this period. Everyone I know who I dragged out there Saturday after Saturday has since told me they really didn’t like it; with a lucidity that only time can bring, I too recall all of its attributes that made Home Sweet Home empirically awful. Basically, this place was like someone’s unfinished basement, with bare cement floors, old couches and exposed brick walls. The sound system was so bad that it blew out around 1:30 AM every Saturday, and could only be resuscitated by one of the DJs fanning the back of the speakers with a towel. Based on how many people were shoved in there, its owners did not believe in fire codes. The bartenders thought they were the coolest people in New York and treated clientele as such. I tried to get with one of them, but the story of Jasper McAndy, AKA Bone Necklace, AKA one of the stupidest men I’ve ever met, is best saved for another time. Its patrons were a weird mix of Bridge & Tunnel and the Douchiest Hipsters Around. Home Sweet Home’s only saving graces were a fun set of guys on the decks (though they weren’t really decks more than one of the dudes’ MacBooks) and stupidly strong drinks. The DJs played only songs I loved and they always honored my requests. The cocktails always got me drunk.

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We have previously established that though I am a dating master, I have the potential to treat people rather badly, though always with humor, almost always as a result of too much gin, and in a way that the man seems to enjoy.  Our friend Dwarfy Chode texted me the day after I insulted him to his face and asked me out again.  Needless to say, that did not happen.

Karma bit me in the ass a few times after that.  I suffered two nasty heartbreaks at the hands of guys I thought were really cool but turned out to be total asshats, and definitely not in a funny way.  In fact, they made me wonder why the world considers women the crazy sex.  One of these gentlemen sent me a 2-page long message on Facebook telling me that he wished he could raft down a river like Huck Finn instead of facing the fact that he was unemployed, unemployable and perpetually on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  This was after we had been seeing each other regularly for almost two months and he dropped off the face of the earth for a week.  I mean, seriously.  That is everyone’s story in this damn city.  Every 20-something who lives here believes him or herself to be perilously close to a psychotic break, so I hope for his sake that Crazy Justin got a life.  The other dude, who my friends and I still refer to as Douchey Ian, was just mean to me and got back together with an ex-girlfriend who he told me cheated on him, owed him thousands of dollars, and stole his air conditioner on the hottest day of summer.  MEN, I TELL YA.  So It was with high hopes and absolutely no standards that I entered our next tale:

In Which Our Heroine Gets Screwed Into Paying a Large Bar Tab, Sneaks Off Without Saying Goodbye

In the midst of the Douchey Ian debacle, I worked at a long-term temp (now permanent) job at a law firm on Wall Street.   After about a week of sitting in the same outdoor lunch spot every day, I noticed a handsome man sitting on the bench next to me.  A few days later, he noticed that I was reading The Dark Knight Returns and decided to strike up a conversation.  See?  Comic books are man catnip!  They flock to them!  Well, a certain type of man flocks to them but if a guy isn’t at least a little interested in comics then I am generally not interested in him.  It’s nerd code.

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I’ve been out of the dating game for quite some time now.  It feels pretty great to be in a mostly-stable, committed relationship with a dude whose company I genuinely enjoy, and the icing on the cake is that for the time being, I do not have to participate in the time-honored, completely horrific social ritual of the first date.  I can content myself with watching on the sidelines while my roommates and friends fret over what to wear, where to go and how drunk it is appropriate to get, all while having a hearty chuckle and offering my “expert” advice.

It is pretty laughable that people even ask for my opinions in the first place, given that I suck at dating and when I am forced to do it, I become a complete crazy person.  My knowledge of men boils down to “talk to them about comic books and they think it’s hot,” while my woman brain is corrupted by that single man fact and years of having only 3 female friends at any given time.  Anytime someone asks me if they should text or call someone they like, my answer is invariably “do you want to?  Then do it?  You don’t want to?  Don’t!”  As for meeting people, here are some simple guidelines to follow, according to no one but me:

  • See someone you like?  Go introduce yourself to this person!  Find common interests and expand on them in a charming manner.  Does this seem intimidating?  If yes, make eyes at this person from across the room/bar/club until they notice.  They will either reciprocate, or they will move so that the crazy person staring at them will stop.
  • Note that this is not effective with bartenders since making eye contact with them binds you into a social contract to order more drinks.  To wit, if your love interest is a bartender you’ll probably get really wasted really fast all the time.  In this situation, tip generously and offer to make out with them in a corner after they get off, but only after several nights (or days, whatever) of sitting at a good spot at his or her place of work, unaccompanied by your friends.  That part is important as it guarantees he or she will talk to you because you seem like a sad, lonely alcoholic.  In my experience this always (never) works.
  • Interested in a good friend?  Constantly sit next to them in all social situations.  This person might have a significant other who they will probably complain about sometimes.  Latch on to all negative comments and inflate them until you turn their partner into an undateable troll.  Then, get drunk and offer to make out with your friend in a corner in an effort to pick up the pieces.
  • If all of these things fail, find the one person you hate more than anyone else and wait until the moment you discover that he or she is actually your soul mate.  This will only happen after you are inextricably thrown together in some humorous situations involving broken-down cars, animal mishaps, and parties where you are forced to dance with each other or kiss during a game of spin the bottle.

And that’s how you find love folks.  It’s science.

As you can see, I am an expert in the world of dating.  While discussing the intricacies of single life with my lady roommate the other night, I was pleasantly (read: embarrassingly) reminded of a few of my first date misadventures, three of which I would like to share with you over the next few days.  In all situations, names have been changed or omitted, not in an effort to protect the gentlemen in question, but because I forget what they were called.  Well, all except one guy because his name is funny.  I will present them in chronological order so you can easily chart my descent into madness.

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Let’s just get to it.  This blows.

9:06 AM: Can’t sleep anymore and have a pretty intense headache, though I slept really well.  Great.  Determined to better space out the juices so that I can get to sleep at a reasonable hour today.  Did not make it the suggested 2 hours last night before passing out but I can’t say I’m super fussed.

12:43 PM: Couldn’t make it through the green juice, and am now sucking down water like it’s my job.  I wonder if this is the “cleanse” part finally taking hold?

1:37 PM: Major discomfort.  Seriously considering throwing in the towel just to get rid of the terrible heartburn.  Juice 2, normally my favorite, is killing me.

2:15 PM: I FEEL LIKE I’M TAKING CRAZY PILLS. Seriously, a normally innocuous, funny scene in one of my favorite episodes of Gilmore Girls (the one where Rory finds out she got into every college she applied to and Paris freaks out on CSPAN because she had sex with her boyfriend and SPOILER ALERT didn’t get into Harvard and Sookie is pregnant and WHATEVER you don’t CARE) just made me cry.  Oh, and I cheated and ate roughly ¼ of a cucumber.

3:12 PM: Decided not to finish juice 2, at least not right away.  I’m feeling less crazy and my stomach is much calmer than it was, but my head is still in a fair amount of pain.  Considering skipping beets altogether and eating an avocado instead, but it is difficult to let these juices beat me and that is a long way away since it’s 3:15 and I’m still on juice 2.  Almost past caring though.  Hoping that SoapNet airs the episode of One Tree Hill where Dan Scott gets hit by a car while finding out he is getting a heart transplant, or the episode where a dog eats the heart he’s supposed to get.  I ate the rest of the cucumber.  SUE ME.

5:05 PM: Definitely spent all afternoon watching SoapNet programs but you know what?  I am not ashamed.  The green juice is feeling sort of good right now, and I am still girded to skip the beets.  Some broad on the internet wrote that she skipped the beets on the last day and had avocado/cucumber sushi rolls.  That sounds AMAAAAAAAZING and I am going to steal her idea, almost certainly.  3 days off solid food is just not the way to live, people!  Decided to take an herbal laxative as suggested by the cleanse people to…help things along.  Note to cleanse people: you should list “PMS-style weepies” as a possible side effect because I’ve been there all day.  ONE TREE HILL SHOULD NOT MAKE ANYONE TEAR UP.  IT IS NOT NATURAL.


7:16 PM: So conflicted about possible rolls.  The feeling of failure is deep but the thought of beet juice makes me want to VOM.

8:22 PM: SWEET MANNA OF THE GODS, THESE ROLLS ARE A REVELATION.  I have zero regrets about breaking the cleanse and abandoning the beet juice.  Throwing caution to the wind, I choose to use the lemon cayenne number as a beverage.  I’m just a badass like that.  As the blogger who I stole the idea professes, these small morsels of solid food are going to keep me from ordering an egg-and-cheese-bagel-extra-egg-extra-cheese with a side of cheese for breakfast tomorrow.  So in the long run and in comparison, a bit of sticky rice and a few drops of soy sauce are not so bad.

9:22 PM: Making the executive decision to drink the cashew milk for breakfast tomorrow so I can get a good night’s sleep tonight.  Admittedly, I feel really good right now, but given how badly I’ve been doing for the last 12 hours I am not sure if that can be attributed to the juice.  Stay tuned for a full juice analysis/solid food recap tomorrow!