“Hi Happy Hour, so glad we could get reacquainted. You should meet my friend grad school.”

FB status message, 12:51AM, Friday, 9/18/09

Oops! Happy hour turned into several hours and multiple rounds. Can’t say it was the best idea to drink like it’s still summer the day before my first Indian wedding weekend (what a party!), but I survived and ironically, my best packing job was done hungover.

More musings on grad school TK.

TGIF: My favorite quotes from today

“It’s not about who has the upper hand, you should be holding hands.”
- Amanda B. on dating

(973): Coffee is gods way of saying go ahead, get absolutly trashed on weeknights, I got your back
- textsfromlastnight.com, currently my favorite website for a mid-workday laugh

“You date children, not people WITH children!” – my friend Joy

My last last post neglected to mention that the flirty bartender, Matt, got my number. The night we met, Matt was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. “How’s your night going,” I had asked. “A whole lot better now that you’re here,” he said, suave as can be. I think I actually giggled. In these summer months, I could overlook his apparent career choice (at 33, I didn’t think it was a seasonal gig)… annnnd secretly hope that he was between Wall St. jobs or in grad school or at least had plans to open his own bar.

My aspirations for Matt were dashed swiftly on our first date at Boat Basin. Turns out, he is a career bartender… and a father. Didn’t see that one coming? Neither did I. Below is how the conversation went with my accompanying inner monologue. (Oh to be sitting at the table right next to us, NBC sitcom-worthy entertainment.)

“So what do you in your spare time?” I asked, after describing my hobbies as learning to play tennis again, hanging out with friends, and working rather unsuccessfully on my tan.

“I hang out with my daughter. So, I have a daughter,” he said both nonchalantly and matter-of-factly.

GONG!  In my mind, there was an Asian gong being hit after this shocking statement (and those that followed). The jarring sound also represents the brief pause I took to pull myself together and hide the instinct to flee from showing on my face. It was a true testament to my politeness that I managed to keep up the conversation.

“Oh. So, what’s her name? How old is she?” I asked aiming for a sincere tone, not a scared shitless one.

“Armanni, with two N’s. She’s nine.” GONG! GONG!

My head rang. Matt then began to delve into his fun, joint custody times, which led me to my next question. “Do you keep in touch with her mother?”

“My ex-wife? Oh of course,” he said. GONG!

“Oh you have an ex-wife…” I said faintly.

“Yeah, this wasn’t a baby-mama situation. I am a divorcee. I got married at 23 and had my girl at 24, things just didn’t work out,” he said.

I admit that I felt bad for Matt at this point. While I was clearly taken aback, he probably had to recite this story many times in the last five years since his split. My sympathy soon expired when the conversation moved back to his daughter. Matt prattled on how the divorce was hard on her, how karate lessons kept her focused, how he moved to an area of New Jersey with a “great school system.” I appreciated that he was a good dad, that he pulled extra shifts at the bar for karate lessons (FYI, bartending IS lucrative. Big Daddy claimed he made $500 a night, five days a week), but seriously, HOW DO I RELATE?

“You’re not used to this! You date children, not people with children!” my friend Joy exclaimed later when I broke the news of the bartender’s fatherhood. She’s right. My dates trend toward the recent-grad end of the spectrum, not the previously married.

My fantasies of carefree, summer dates at fabulously chic restaurants, bars, and clubs with my hottie Ecuadorian drink master were gone. (To my endless amusement, there were a lot of requests for T-Pain’s “Bartender” in those visions.) Yet, while I may have tuned out during Matt’s family-talk, I respected where he came from and who he tried to be for his child. That’s one thing I’ve always enjoyed about dating, and meeting new people, I love to hear their stories.

The date also made me realize that this may be what I have to look forward to. Matt in some way represented the future. The older you date, the more experience and baggage the other person will have. He may have been the first divorcee and dad I went out with, but he probably won’t be the last. And maybe, in this not-so-faraway future, I’ll be more open to dating people with tremendously different backgrounds than my own as long as they have a good heart.

For now, however, being a step-mom is just not on my agenda. (It is so far from my agenda, in fact, that it may as well be in the suburb of NJ where Matt lives). I am twenty-seven, I still have faith that I can meet someone sans progeny.

Like I always say, ”It’s either a good time or a good story.” I think we know what category this goes in.

There’s a frog in my purse!

I inexplicably found a tiny, pink rubber frog in my purse today. Just now. No idea how it got there. It seems like Brother Jimmy’s paraphenelia, but I haven’t been to that bar in years. I can’t even remember the last time I used my white purse. Feel free to comment and suggest where I’d get such a thing. Have you ever found something completely random in your purse after a night out? (I assume since I have no small children, this is from an outing.) Feel free to comment on that too. This does bring to mind, the infamous Halloween night where the next day, an Earl Grey tea bag, double A batteries, and cigarettes were “found” on my person. My partner-in-crime Jon and I never figured it out.

Said frog. Approx. 1" long. So random.

Jon’s blog, btw, is fabulous. It covers entertainment, video games, random thoughts, and is as fun and witty as he is. Check it out. http://jonrosspot.blogspot.com

Summer Spontaneity

As much as I love planning, schedules, and lists, I equally love (if not more) spontaneity. (Maybe it’s the conflicting Gemini twins within me.) There is no place more capricious than New York, and no season that draws out impulsivity like summer. Maybe it’s the fact that you don’t need a jacket and the sun doesn’t set till 8:30 p.m. For me and my friends, there needn’t be a reason – it’s a Thursday in July is enough.

Last night was a quintessential random New York night – we went to three new (to me) bars (at one, weaseling our way to an exclusive rooftop party), made new friends (ones you would date and legitimate pals), and for me, ended with a Cup O’ Noodles from my corner store. Here is the play-by-play in my aforementioned favorite format, a list:

My night started off like this

• The night started innocuously enough in the UWS at Blondie’s for some post-softball wings, (glorious) cheese fries, and Miller Lite pitchers. Chatter included a fierce debate on whether bottom line-focused sales departments hurt publishing and the literary landscape or if sales just gives people what they want. Simultaneously, at the other end of the table, people argued as to whether Tina Fey has sex appeal. (I say yes.)
• After a quick change of clothes and train ride downtown, I met with Rach, Joy, and Neha in Gramercy. We stumbled upon the “soft opening” of a new swank Russian bar, Mari Vanna. The shabby chic atmosphere, including charming mismatched china, was perfect for catching up with the girls. The place also had great rosé sangria and delightfully unique assortment of beers.
• We were on the guestlist for a Patron-sponsored party at Thom Bar in the Thompson Hotel. Sadly the drinks
  

  ... and ended up like this

  were not free, but Patron is always worth it. The scene was different than the usual (and a huge departure from my sporty early evening). It was also nice to chat with people who didn’t just graduate college last summer. Best part: After being denied by a bitter, model-type hostess, I sweet-talked my way into getting a card key from the flirty bartender, so we could gain access to the rooftop bar. There, we hobnobbed with CEOs and discussed American etiquette with new friends, a Kenyan named Arnold (not sure if that’s his real name or just his Americanized one) and a beautiful Croatian woman, whose name I couldn’t pronounce then and now no longer remember. They told us it’s a very American thing to ask, “What do you do?” It’s considered a rude question everywhere else.

• At the persuasion of Arnie, we walked down a block or two to Café Noir, which is much nicer and less cheesy than its web site conveys. I met a Hoosier there named Seth and talked about the Indiana State Fair (I’ve been!). Then it was time to haul our fabulous selves home, drunk off the spur-of-the-moment NY summer spirit.

Heal the World?

Yesterday, while walking uptown to my meet my friend Shira for a tennis match that didn’t happen, I was stopped by a Save the Children advocate. If you’ve walked the streets of NYC in the summer, you’re familiar with these sales people… fresh-faced recent college grads in polos embroidered with their organization’s logo, who are relentless in getting you to sponsor a child in a Third World country. They are also experts in utilizing guilt. (I have nothing against these groups, but I HATE HATE HATE being solicited on the street.)

Anyway, this young man was about to give me his spiel, when I told him, “Sorry, already signed up with Children’s International [the competition] last week.”

It’s true. I had successfully avoided the Children’s International pushers on my way home from work for a good three weeks with the o’l pretend I’m on my cell phone trick, but was finally worn down by a J.T.T. lookalike a few days after my birthday. “What else would you be spending $22 a month on?” he asked, while blatantly staring at my J. Crew shopping bag. Dammit. I was a goner. Further, he gave me a high-five when I told him I was 27, he thought I was no older than 20. I was putty in his cunning hands. (The bright side to being haggled by a 22-year-old is that I’m sponsoring a little girl in the Philippines, in my dad’s hometown.)

So, what was young man’s response when I told him, thank you but I’m already sponsoring a child, albeit from a competitive organization? “Booooo,” he said while giving me a thumbs down. Seriously? And then I remembered, J.T.T. dissing Save the Children in his sales pitch. I understand competing for donations, but is the mudslinging really necessary? Couldn’t both groups consolidate resources, save more children, and stop acting like children themselves? This isn’t exactly what MJ had in mind.

Ode to Summer

I love summer. The world is bright, warm, and full of possibilities. Situations that are out of character or irresponsible in the dark of winter, like let’s say kissing an out-of-type hipster or staying out till 5 a.m. (at which btw, you can see sunlight and legitimately hear birds chirping), are chalked up as summer adventures to be laughed upon over bloody marys later. Yes, I am talking about last night.

But let me not digress from the glory that is summer. Date inappropriately. Rock a short skirt. Close down a karaoke bar. Eat Pinkberry multiple times a week (or whatever sweet, cold refreshing dessert is your vice). Now is the time, while the days are long and Summer Fridays are in effect. Come September, the need for longer hems, more layers, and to date more realistically will take hold. Don’t squander summer.

Where Have all the Single Wingwomen Gone?

Being single isn’t nearly as fun without your girlfriends. <Insert SATC montage here.> Well, sometime between making out in the back of a LES bar or studying for the GREs, my friends coupled off without me noticing. In Boston, I’m zero for three wingwomen. In New York, a known safehaven for singletons, my compatriots are dwindling. I know my attached friends are still great conversationalists and can sling back kamikaze shots with the best of them, but when the question is asked, “Are you single?” and your winglady says no, the friend of the cute guy, the one with the laid back look and laughing eyes you’ve been checking out all night, is no longer interested and now neither is Nice Eyes/Green Tee/Could’ve Been My Future Husband Guy.

Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely happy for my friends’ romantic successes, I know how hard it is to find someone that you can stand to sit through two pinot grigios with. I’m just wondering, who’s going to take these tequila shots with these out-of-town businessmen with me?

It Could Only Happen to You… In Costa Rica

My dear childhood friend Gele is what you may call your typical Math & Science person. Her recent graduation from med school (Congrats!!) supports this. Gele has always said that English and writing are not her forte. After reading her HILARIOUS e-mail below from her trip to Costa Rica this past May (post-Miami break, pre-graduation), I strongly beg to differ. It’s a great ICOHTY story that caused me to dry heave (my version of silent laughter) in my office cube. Here is the full-story uncensored:

(PS – I know I’ve been super lazy with writing, but I promise, more original ICOHTY stories to come this summer!!)

 

Boy do I have a story for you…Its a little long… So last night I´m at reggae night in costa rica at some bar on the beach…good times….lots of booze, etc. We go to leave the bar and I decide its appropriate to go to the beach with this guy I had hooked up with a few nights earlier (ironically an emory med student). We were just making out on the beach, nothing serious and we decide to go for a swim. All clothes are removed and left on the beach. We are in our birthday suits. We get in the comfortably warm pacific, hook up some more, marvel at the stars, etc. Life is good. A short time later we decide its time to get out so we, in all of our naked glory, exit the water in search of our clothes. Clothes cannot be found. It’s pitch black. The reggae music is still playing at the club we left. We roam the beach looking for the clothes. We find the sandals. The clothes must be near by. We continue searching. 10 minutes have passed. Im starting to lose hope. We need a towel and a flashlight…of course we have neither. What the fuck? We continue searching, basically crawling on the beach, and come across Gabes shirt…which of course I take. Now I have a shirt and sandals and a lot of alcohol in my system. Im really considering going back to the bar and asking for a towel (because of course they would have one). Thankfully he wont let me go because he thinks it will send the wrong message. I suppose I am wearing only a tshirt which I am trying to make into a dress. I see some guys smoking on the beach so in my new dress I approach them. “No hablo ingles” Fuck. “Quiere cervaza?¨” No I definitely dont need a beer. So I break out my best spanglish and say “Necessito una luz, regresso en cinco minutos” They look at me confused but hand over their lighter. We continue our fruitless search for the clothes, and as promised I return to them in 5 minutes. Now what? I have no choice. With a smile I say “No tengo pantalones.” They say a bunch of shit in spanish that I dont understand, laugh and head to the beach to help us search. The very generous costa rican actually takes off his boxers and gives them to Gabe which he has no choice but to take. Who does that? Now I have a “dress” and he has the random guys boxers….things are getting better….sort of. We continue searching. No pantalones. Then the cops show up randomly (seriously, where did they come from?) and the boxer donating guys explain the problem to the best of their ability. Now Im convinced Im going to get arrested. They help us look to no avail. We decide to go home. They insist we take a cab. “Podemos caminiar” I say, we can walk. They laugh and insist on buying us a cab. We show up at the hostel and they let us in but not until the security guard asks Gabe if I am a hooker!! We then put clothes on and take a flashlight back to the beach. We never actually find the clothes. The real cost of such a story is that my camera and all of the pictures from the trip were in the pocket of my skirt and are now gone forever. I am definitely bummed about that but it makes a good story and I actually used the phrase “no tengo pantalones” in a sentence to a random guy.

I was the other woman (sorta)

If you’ve turned on the TV or opened a newspaper (or rather open your Internet browser to a news site) in the last week, chances are you’ve heard and/or seen Elizabeth Edwards. Edwards’ memoir, Resilience, was released last Friday (published by my company) and in it she shares her side of a heartbreaking and very public affair that her husband John engaged in  while campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination in 2008.

It is fitting that my first experience with romance and deception (that I know of) occurred a few days later. Now, my story is way less tragic and far from the excruciating ordeal that Edwards went through. However, in my story, I was (unwittingly) the other woman.

Two weeks ago I went out with some girlfriends to a quirky ‘lil speakeasy in the East Village named the Back Room. We were enjoying mixed drinks in tea cups and beers in paper bags, when my friend’s co-workers joined us. Patrick and Jon (the co-workers) were a fun and funny duo, and as the beers flowed and inebriation was starting to set in, I found myself drawn to Jon. He was more shy than the confident-sometimes-cocky guys I usually go for, and he also seemed so nice. “I wasn’t sure if we’d end up talking tonight,” he said. “You seem so outgoing, I wasn’t sure if we’d have the chance.” He was cute. He was 30(!), which for me to find out, is like the shopping equivalent of discovering at the register that the J. Crew sweater I was buying for 30% off has an additional 40% off — j-j-jackpot!  (A story for another time, but I have somehow amassed a dating record chock full of young, youngish, and younger guys. While it’s not all bad, it does make me appreciate an older fella, but more on that later.)

Jon bought more light brews in paper bags and we talked about work, the age o’l Boston vs. New York Debate (he’s a recent convert), and drank some more. By then Paul had two ladies with him (my friends had already left at this point) and I convinced this group of virtual strangers that we go to my all-time favorite dive bar, Cheap Shots. I could write a whole blog post about the inexpensive, blissful glory that is Cheap Shots, but I’ll save that for another time, all you need to know is that this delightful spot has air hockey, connect 4, and verrrrrry cheap shots (and pitchers). 

At our new location, shots were indeed taken, air hockey games were played, and many a drunk text sent. After what seemed like a 22-year-old hussy (in actuality she was neither 22 or a hussy) started to make moves on “my man” Jon, I made my move. We kissed. I had won. We ended the night with pizza. It was great. But wait a second, did he ask for my number??

In my morning-after fog, I tried to think back… we made out, he bought me beers and cheesy nourishment and didn’t take my number…?! WTF? Or wait, did he? Seriously, I’m starting to think that with age memory goes first, then drinking tolerance. 

This brings me to today. Now for the most part, I’ve filed this guy away as random drunken makeout with bonus good conversation and pizza. On Gchat (where all vital conversations are had these days) my friend J, who works with Did He Ask For My Number Boy?, told me the truth. It wasn’t so much that “he wasn’t that into me” — more that he’s into his GIRLFRIEND. That’s right. G-frickin’-F. She’s in Boston and I’m making out with her boyfriend over Kamikazee shots. I am the other woman. Even though it’s not my fault, I actually feel bad about this. It also leads me to question my judgement (I was convinced he was a sweet gentleman), although honestly, what can you really tell about a person at a bar? Who even knows what his situation is with his girlfriend? Either way, I’m no longer interested. At least, we’re not in politics.