The Incalculable Hangover That is Dating Pt. 1

Is dating simply a vicious cycle? Whether we're trying to create the life we want or just looking to have a good time, there are certainly bumps and hurdles along the way. There is confusion, rejection, turmoil and the worry that we lack the technique and confidence to truly succeed with the opposite sex; and if the opposite sex really is batshit insane....??


And men aren't the only ones to act like utter assclowns on dates or towards the opposite sex; women, too, have this ability. Myself included. In order to write this blog, I've obviously had to go back and recount all of the terrible dates that I've had the misfortune of going on and all of the detriments to society whom I've encountered-- so I figured I'd be fair and briefly focus on some of the stunts I've pulled with men. Trust me, there are quite a few times where I've been a bit of a puta ('bitch' in Spanish), but to name some recent affairs.... 


It usually starts out with the guy acting like a douchebag (shocking!), but ends (ha... but ends) with me a douchebaggette:


1. A few weeks ago, I went out with a guy who I met in Union Square. At the time, I caught him smiling at me and of course I gave him a "WTF?" look (Thanks for this, island of Manhattan). Long story short, I stopped being a bitch and we decided to go for coffee that following Sunday. A cup of coffee turned into 6 cocktails and 6 cocktails turned into him going off about the "amazing Pacific Heights condo" he recently purchased, his two Audis that he owns, and how he and I should plan a trip to NYC sometime (ummm, we just met...). And so this resulted in my tuning him out, thinking to myself amidst my soon-to-be vodka coma how he wears his pants a tad too high and how his supposed Pac Heights condo, not one but two Audis and his desire to travel with me does not make up for that fact that he does indeed have an unfortunate Jew 'fro. All in all: a great date, eh? [note the sarcasm] 

So at this point, I should obviously have sipped the last sips of my 47th greyhound, thanked him for the drinks and the fact that he owns not one, but TWO Audis, and put my ass in a cab and head on home Cinderella-style (meaning: before midnight)... but instead, I put my game face on and brought out my inner tease. I interrupted his current boring, bragtastic discussion of Yale and told him that I wanted to play pool. No "interested in playing pool? or care for a game of billiards?" just "get up, sucker. Em wants to pay some pool!" I played an excellent game, brutally introduced him to my competitive nature and pointed out all of the mistakes he was making (basically, all of the shit I hate that some men do). Then when his jugular was exposed and he was defeated, I sat on his lap, flirted, teased and then left the bar in a blink of an eye. Poof! Gone! I'm sure he headed home $100 poorer and wondering who/what he just went out with. This seemingly cool, savvy blonde turned into a whirlwind of vodka, emotion and condescension in a matter of minutes. Good at Irish Goodbyes? Yes, I'd say so. *adds this skill to resume* 

But that was my instinct of how to act and I went with it; without any discretion whatsoever. Needless to say, I never heard from him; vice versa. And I'm sure we're both perfectly fine with it. Besides, I need a man who owns three Audis. C'mon.


2. Then there was the time that I was dating two guys at the same time, who hung out in the same circle and were "friends." I finally chose one over the other to date exclusively. The Other One was really hurt and became a professional Emily-hater, The Chosen One eventually went to jail for getting into a drunken fight over me on Sunset Blvd. with the Non-Chosen One, and we all became one big, happy family. (except not really.) 


3. Or the time when I received a text from a guy (who hadn't even taken me out on our first date yet, keep in mind) asking me to go into the bathroom and take a photo of myself (don't even get me started on THAT kind of douchey behavior, boys and girls...). I told him 'fat chance' and that I was out to dinner with my friends' band who were in town on tour. He persisted. And persisted. And persisted. So the lead singer took my phone into the bathroom, took a photo of his junk and sent it to the guy. Voila. Boom. Done. Problem solved. [side note: lead singer was a gentleman and deleted all evidence of that photo, so I didn't see it thankfully]. 


Yes, this was pretty freaking hilarious at the time (still is, actually) and I appreciate my guy friends for taking care of this Toolbag for me in a creative, albeit possibly-incriminating way... but I probably could've handled it on a more mature matter. Oh well. 

But on that note.... is it simply a human's innate response to act like a complete nincompoop when they're uncomfortable? Even when another human's feelings or opinions are at risk? I'm certainly guilty of doing the ever-seductive withholding dance when I feel like a guy is moving too fast with me or isn't giving me and us enough space (yes, men, believe it or not, even YOU can be too clingy and available!) 


I've been uber annoyed when guys become too available and too *gasp!* sweet, yet I've also willed some unavailable asshole to love me back for months at a time (ahhhh, denial... how I miss thee.)


I've become restless, pissed off and just plain crazy when a guy isn't texting or emailing back, yet I've rolled my eyes at and ignored certain texts or emails from perfectly nice men who are just trying to win my approval by not playing games. 

In my opinion, hangovers (I've lost you at this point, huh, Mormons?) have similar definitions and meanings as dating does. 


Hang●over \hang-o-ver\
●noun
1. A let down after a period of euphoria.
2. Something remaining from a previous state or time.


Symptoms:


-           Weakness, fatigue, headache, nausea and vomiting.


-           Irritability, depression, anxiety and decreased sleep. 








Sounds about right to me.


And at this point, does one keep on truckin,' throw on some stilettos or a tie (or both-- hey, I'm not here to judge) and go out on a Friday night with an open-mind and a hopeful disposition? 




....Or quit drinking all together?






--Emily 

Where is a hit man when you need one?

Ok, folks, it's time for me to tell you about the most horrific, shocking, unbelievably douchey and cringeworthy date I've ever been on... Not just the worst date of my life, but the worst date in the history of womankind. It's a doozy. And 100% true (unfortunately... ugh). When I tell this story, there are times where I still have to question, "did this actually happen?! Why me? What have I done/who did I piss off in order to deserve this? Am I being Punked?" and so forth... After several weeks of nearly dry-heaving when I'd think of that god awful night's events, contemplating changing my phone number, email, name, zip code, etc., and constantly looking over my shoulder throughout the streets of Manhattan in fear that I would bump into The Douchenozzle Himself, I'm now ready to talk about it in full... and realize that TDH (the douchenozzle himself) has technically inspired this blog's existence the most... so cheers to you, you crazy bastard. 




It was an unusually warm Spring Saturday in March of 2010 on the island of Manhattan. I had just finished my morning Pilates/Yoga/Pain in My Ass class at my gym in TriBeCa, and after my ride home on the subway, I decided to stop at Dean & Deluca for one of their tasty fresh-squeezed lemonades. Now, even though I take pride in the fact that my work out clothes are very cute and stylish and since I'm that annoying girl who puts a touch of make-up on before gym-ing it (don't hate), during this particular visit to D&D, I was in no mood to be hit on. My metabolism was up, I was ready to chug some lemonade and then head back to my 'hood and inhale a burrito somewhere. I was sweaty, I had my big, ol' sunglasses on and my typical "F*ck Off" sign stamped to my forehead. Ya know, the ush. So as I'm playing on my iPhone and patiently (or as best I can) waiting in line to pay for my beverage, I can feel this guy (TDH) in front of me with his back facing the cashier and his front facing me, and he's just staring at me and smiling... Now as most NYC residents know, we're not a fan of this behavior. Do not be nice to us for no reason. Do not smile at us on line at Starbucks. Do not make conversation with us in the cab. If you do these things, we're going to give you an intense, "what the hell are you looking at me for, clown?!" look... which is exactly what I did. I looked behind me to see if there could be any other pour soul who he'd be acknowledging. When I realized that I was said pour soul, I bitchily asked him if I could help him. And as he began to speak, I suddenly felt a bit of relief because he was clearly gay (wrong actually... but read on). So as he's telling me about how he just moved here and is trying to locate/join the best gym in the city, while getting opinions from fellow gym-goers (e.g. Me), I'm starting to feel less typical-angry-New-Yorker-ish and figure I ought to be nice to the guy. So as I go on and on about my gym and how "there are super cute guys in suits there... it's the best one in the city yada yada yada" (keep in mind, I was assuming the Gay at this time), he then asks if he can get my phone number or business card. I became a little hesitant and gave him a weird, confused look-- to which he assured me that he was just trying to meet new, interesting people in the city. So, since I know what it's like to be the new kid in town, I gave him my card and went on my way home....


Within the next half hour and seconds after I walked into my apartment, I get an email from him. It was very witty, short and sweet. He said that he enjoyed meeting me and that he had an extra pass to the TriBeCa Film Festival the following weekend, and was wondering if I wanted to attend some screenings/after parties with him. So since I was still thinking he was just an over-friendly gay guy who was looking to add another fashionista-type to his social circle (my gaydar FAILED me), I said yes.... BUT that I would like to get to know him over dinner or drinks beforehand. He happily concurred and we set up a time to meet that Tuesday. Then up until that soon-to-be-dreaded Tuesday, we exchanged a few witty, friendly emails-- and he said to meet him at The W Hotel bar in Times-too-many-effing-tourists-Square at 8:00. And he also put in his email for me to "dress nice." Pssshhhh. I wanted to reach through the computer and punch him. 


So that Tuesday as I was getting ready for this evening out with Mr. Ambiguous (aka TDH), my roommate began to inquire what my plans were for the night. I told her that I "wasn't entirely sure...." and that I quite possibly had a date with gay man... She laughed and assured me that I would enjoy myself. She's clearly not psychic.... 


20:00 W Hotel bar TimesSq:
I'm dressed in an LBD (little black dress for the straight men reading) and heels. As the elevator doors open on the bar floor (my favorite floor!), I see him sitting at the bar. He waves. He's dressed in a suit and looks pretty decent. But again, I'm still thinking he's gay... mannerisms, voice, etc. He motions to someone who I assume is an owner or manager and we are led to a private table. I order champagne, he orders a cosmo (gaydar is through the roof at this point). For the first few minutes, we discuss our hometowns, college majors, and jobs (he said he worked in Finance... Gaydar went down a tad). Casual conversation. THEN... the douchiness begins. And it's just the tip of the douchey iceberg. 


TBH: "I'm very intuitive and can tell that you're very close with your parents; particularly your father."
Me: "Yes..."
TBH: "Tell me the greatest childhood memory that you have of your dad and you."
Me: *begins to tell a meaningful story about my FATHER* 
TBH: interrupts me mid-sentence and says, "I have to interrupt-- I can tell that you're a very orgasmic person because you stroke and touch your arms a lot when you speak..."


!!!!!!!


Me: *cringes and pulls sweater over self* 


Ok. Keep in mind, I was "touching my arms" because I was trying to cover up my cleavage (or what little there is/was) because he was blatantly staring at it/them. (gaydar: dowwwwwn) When I get uncomfortable in a situation, it's pretty freaking obvious and my stance, posture and demeanor change. But this Douche with a capital D of course turned in into something sexual... a huge No-No! I'm not a dating expert (although, with my experience and track record, I should maybe look into it as a career...), but, Men of the World, if you are trying to impress a classy girl on a first date, believe it or not, you should NOT talk about sex-- or anything related. Especially the word 'orgasmic.' And especially while a girl is talking about her FATHER. *shudders* .... And believe it or not, I'm a bit of a prude on the first few dates. I rarely ever kiss on the first date (unless of course he has a Pit Bull)-- and if I do kiss on the first date, I usually never see him again. It's just how I operate. I like to keep it casual and light: get to know one another, have some PG (maybe PG-13)-rated fun and flirt. 


Ok, so THIS is when I should've downed the rest of my champagne (or broken the glass over his head-- whichever) and bolted for the elevator. Instead....


Me: (after fighting the urge to castrate him) "Ummm, I wasn't touching my arms... I was trying to pull the top of my dress up because these seats make you sit kind of awkwardly." (or, I dunno, I said something of the matter. It's kind of a blur....)
TDH: "Oh! Speaking of... have you had any work done? You have really nice breasts."


Again with the !!!!!!!


Me: "Umm, no, they're real... Have YOU had any work done? (asking jokingly......... should've known)
TDH: "Yes, actually. I have butt-implants. I got them while I was living in Rio."
Me: *long, blank, confused stare.......* ????
TBH: *stands up, turns around so said implants are in my face* "Look. I'm very proud of them."


And yes, he was being serious. I may have poor gaydar, but my sarcasm-dar (is that a thing?) is superb. 

At this point, I should have left yet again. But I'm either a masochist or I was so intrigued/frozen by the enormous amount of douchey monstrosity of whom I was out with on a Tuesday night, that I had to see more. Plus, I was hungry. So when he asked me if he could make a quick stop at his condo, which was near the restaurant, to change into some more comfortable clothes, I told him that that was fine and I would plan on waiting in the lobby for him. So as I'm waiting in a big, fancy lobby of a swanky condo building, out walks.... 
well, there are no words... 
but, basically, this: 

Only, add LOTS more rhinestones, a bit of fringe, jeans with similar prints/embellishments, and the horrible realization that he actually thinks he looks gooooood.

I took one horrified look at him and scoffed... and then started to giggle uncontrollably. I can say that I honestly looked around the lobby expecting my friends and a camera crew to come out of hiding. This was a joke. A prank. Anyone who knows me well knows that I loathe anything that Christian Audigier designs and that I'm more than happy to mock it/judge any toolbag who wears it....

But then I realized that he was indeed wearing this on our "date" (*shudders again*) and I stopped laughing and annoyingly proceeded to dinner with him.

A short cab ride later, we arrived at a very, very fancy French restaurant called Per Se (at the time, I hadn't even heard about it). It was unusually quiet and we were seated at a table next to this sweet and attractive Greek/Hispanic family. They had two beautiful daughters and my date immediately began flirting up a storm with them. Now, normally, I'd be offended if any guy did this exact thing while on a date with a pretty girl who deserves his full attention... but since I was out with The Douchebag Himself, I could give a shit and was anxiously awaiting the waitress to deliver my bottle of red. Once she arrived, I drank up. I drank up a lot. Anything to numb the douchiness that I was experiencing and was about to experience even more. I also ordered the lobster special just to be a bitch. Normally, I am not that type of girl who orders the most expensive thing on the menu simply because she can. Honestly. And I've happily gone dutch on several dates. But after all of the stunts he was pulling that evening, you bet your ass he was going to get an enormous bill at the end of the night. And he deserved to pay every cent of it.

So during dinner, he OUT OF NOWHERE begins telling me this long, elaborate, ridiculous story about a stripper whom he met while in Rio (I'm seriously never ever going there) who had a levitating vibrator (yep! you heard right). A levitating vibrator.... What is this, you ask? Hell if I know! I just remember him being very vivid in his descriptions and hand motions, that at one point during it, I'm pretty sure I levitated out of MY body, looked down at us and shouted, "Come the $!*#!* on!!" I was appalled. Shocked. Amused by the fact that people like this actually exist. Also, keep in mind, he was doing/saying all of these things in a gay voice and mannerism... Now, we all know I LOVE my gays. Love, love, love! But do I want them to hit on me, talk about my Father and orgasms in the same sentence, tell tales of strippers and floating vibrators, while complimenting me on my boobs and wearing Ed Hardy? NO!!


So, it was at this point in time where I told him that it was time for me to head home (not before ordering a semi-expensive bottle of dessert wine, just for shits and giggles). He paid the check (but not after making some sort of un-funny joke about how "we should go dutch"-- to which I kindly told him to dream the eff on) and we walked out of the restaurant; as I was hugging myself tightly, while walking at least 5 feet ahead of him and praying for TDH to just disintegrate. I hailed a cab-- I would've hailed a serial killer in a beat up van at this point. I thanked him for dinner and opened the door to the magical yellow car that I was so happy to see. I was about to fling myself into the car or even hop on the hood and hope for the best, when he grabbed my arm, pulled me into him and said, "You know.. most serious, committed relationships begin with sex on the first date...."

Me: *PUNCH in TDH's FACE*



The cab ride home is kind of a blur, because A. I had had a lot of booze, let's be honest. B. I may have had the cabby pull over because I had the urge to throw up; not from the booze, but from the evening's events. And C. I was still so incredibly bewildered by the human whom I had just encountered.... but as I walked into my apartment and as my roommate noticed the dazed and horrified look on my face, she quietly asked: "How did it go?"

Me: "Where is a hit man when you need one?"

--Emily

The Breakup With a Capital B

Before I begin spilling the dirt on my amazingly douchey dating tales (trust me, you're going to need a shower after the first one. And I don't mean a cold one), I should probably tell you a little bit about myself (for those of you who do not know me personally) and where/why I'm at in the current stage of my life. 


[side note: I'm going to get a tad deep and profound in this post, but the sarcasm, mild profanity and typical ME shall return soon.]   


As most of you know, I'm a recent San Francisco transplant from New York City. I'm already madly in love with this city (always have been) and I'm thrilled to be near family again (they're in Napa; just far enough away.... ha. jk, fam!). I've decided that I want to go back to school and get my MBA; thus, I'm excited for things to come and, all in all, life is good and I'm happy....

But it took me a while to get here: 7 months, 6 days, 14 hours, 32 minutes and 8 seconds to be exact.... but who's counting?...  So, yes, I will briefly (or as best I can) address the pink suede elephant in the room for those that know me: that being the recent Breakup I endured. 


Now, I refuse to get into much detail about/talk shit on James-- actually, scratch that: let's refer to him as He Who Must Not Be Named-- but readers should know that even through all of the humor, sarcasm, bashing-of-d-bags, and most importantly, the FUN that I've experienced in my years of dating, I've also experienced immense heartache, loss, denial, angst and rejection. I've suffered through countless sleepless nights, loss of appetite for weeks at a time, that psychotic feeling where if a certain someone doesn't call/text/email you soon, your heart is going to leap out of your chest and beat the shit out of them.... I've holed myself up in my apartment for weeks at a time, sitting in the dark, ignoring all of my friends, family, responsibilities, leg-shaving-- aka: doing everything you shouldn't do. During the times where I would actually leave my apartment, men would approach me in bars because they thought I was pretty or *gasp!* normal, but they'd soon be running for their lives out the door the second I opened my mouth, or when they got a cold, hard look at my mascara-gooped eyes and sulking, miserable, hit man-seeking face. Yep, I was that girl for a little while. Crazy, broken, bitter... A gal who should've stayed the eff home on her couch, eating ding-dongs, going into a wine/Tylenol PM coma, while watching The Way We Were. (oh trust me, I had some of those nights, too....) Isn't it amazing how the heart can actually physically hurt?...

But I prevailed. Eventually. I had amazing, steadfast girlfriends who dragged me off the couch and out for brunch or a walk through Central Park. I have two of the most amazing parents in the world, who would do anything and everything for me (and a Father who would kill anyone for me....). These amazing souls reminded me that I have the ability to live, breathe, react and get out of bed each morning like a normal person; despite anything disconcerting that may be occurring. I had to learn to help myself on my own as well; which I did. I finally embraced my singe life and went out with the girls. Flirted with cute strangers. Danced on tabletops. LAUGHED. Stopped thinking about/trying to communicate with irrelevant douchebags who hurt me. I had FUN; and for once it wasn't forced. And unlike most individuals, change does not frighten me; in fact, I'm intrigued and excited by it. We as humans are naturally resilient and have to realize that while grieving is healthy and necessary, a person has to dust themselves off and try, try again. 




-Emily

Is D for Dating, or Debauchery?

Well, after the recent blatantly obvious conclusions that hint towards the fact that I might just have the worst dating luck on the planet, I've decided that rather than sulking about it and questioning the karma gods, I would have a sense of humor about it, enjoy the ride (minds out of the gutter!) and write a blog; chronicling all of the ToolBags whom I encounter along the way. And, who knows?... Maybe I'll meet a non-detriment to society along the way? Either way, at least I'll get a hell of a story out of it, right? Thanks for the good times, Douchebags of America (and England: inside joke). This one is for you. Cheers!

-Emily

P.S. For those of you who think this is some sort of Superiority Complex (c'mon, we can't BOTH be bitter!), please know that my definition of a D-bag has nothing to do with a man's annual earnings (unless of course he's in Finance: that screeeeeams D-bag), his ethnicity/culture (unless of course, he wears a do-rag), the label/brand of clothes he wears, or the type of car he drives (but let's face it-- we all know what a lifted truck amounts to....). 


I'm not here to hate on men. I'm simply here to anonymously document my dating stories and make you laugh; or think to yourself, "where is a hit man when you need one?"

Stay tuned, folks!