Men like this are single and on the loose in NYC
[image error]If you are NOT a single woman and you do NOT live in New York City please stop reading this blog post immediately, as it does not apply to you.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap….are we alone? Good. OK, so, I think I just went on a date with the douchiest guy in New York. And you know how sometimes you just need some commiseration from a good girlfriend? Someone who can say, sister, I've been there, too? That's what I'm needing right about now. Let me begin by saying that a good friend set me up with him. And I am always, always appreciative of the friends who bother to set me up. She didn't know this guy well; she just knew that he was successful and driven and thought it might be nice for me to date a go-getter such as myself. So if she happens to read this (please, please, don't read this, close girlfriend who I want to keep as a close girlfriend,) I want to make clear that the M.R. (Man Rage) this guy has triggered in me has nothing to do with you.
Anyway. I probably should have bailed on the date before we ever went out, because the first time we talked on the phone, I found him to be combative and arrogant and didn't get a good feeling at all. He asked me how my week was looking, and I said I was free Wednesday night. He said, "Oh, I have plans that night." I said, "How about tomorrow night?" He said, "I'm having tapas with a guy I've rescheduled three times." I said, "OK, then, Sunday?" He said, "Nope, sorry, can't do it then." I said, "Why don't you tell me what works for you?" He said, "How about brunch on Saturday?" I said, "Actually, evenings are better for me." He said, "Why?" I said, "Because I tend to work during the day." He said, "On the weekend?" I said, "I work every day–I'm a writer." He said, "That's ridiculous, you should take a day off. So, Saturday brunch?" I was already exhausted at this point, so I gave in.
He suggested Elmo, in Chelsea. It's a loud, bustling, trendy–and very gay–restaurant. When I walked up to him he was sitting at the bar, typing on his Blackberry. At the sight of me, he jumped into the air, completely startled, as if I'd walked up to him pointing a gun at his chest. I think he may have been joking, but it immediately threw me off-balance. We sat down at the table and the waiter came over to us. Then he did that thing that I hate where he asked the waiter his name and started using it in conversation: "Mark, I'll have a Virgin Mary. And Mark, I think Laurie wants a decaf coffee."
He asked me where I grew up. I said, "Stockton, California until I was eight. It's kind of a white trash town…" He cut me off and said, "Oh. You may not know this, but you probably shouldn't say that." I said, "White trash?" And he said, "Yes, the phrase is kind of offensive–it's reverse racism." He proceeded to elucidate the origin of the phrase. (A phrase which, I have learned, is offensive and reverse-racist so I apologize to all the white people I have offended over the years.) At this point, I started to think, oh, OK–he has Aspberger's Syndrome. Because even if you thought that, you wouldn't say it in the first 10 minutes of a date. He also kept abruptly changing the subject and asking out-of-context questions, like, "Do you think your parents are in love?" In hindsight, I wish I'd refused to answer, or gotten up and left, but I felt compelled to get through it, because a mutual friend had set us up…and because I'm a woman, and this is something that women do. So I said something like, "Well, they did kiss each other hello and goodbye, but didn't have the type of relationship where my mom would be cooking and my dad would come up behind her and put his hands on her hip and kiss her on the neck. It wasn't romantic like that." And he said, "Ohh, I get it–so your idea of a romantic relationship is dating a VAMPIRE."
He also kept interrupting to give me pop quizzes, like, "OK. I'm going to ask you something I've been asking a lot of people lately. You're involved in two lotteries. Lottery A and Lottery B. In Lottery A, you have 3 tickets and 7 different people have 1 ticket each. In Lottery B, you have 3 tickets and one person has 7 tickets. Which lottery would you prefer to be in?" I would say, "Um…Lottery A, I guess." Him: "Why?" Me: "Well, what does it say about you if you pick–" Him: "It doesn't say anything, it's an instinct game." Me: "Well, I guess because I'd rather have more tickets than a bunch of people, than fewer tickets than one person." Him: "Interesting. Interesting. OK, there are two jars. One has 90 white marbles and 10 black marbles. The other has 9 white marbles and 1 black marble…" I should have said, "I would pick the heavier jar and smash it over your head." But I didn't. I picked the jar with fewer marbles and explained my position. Because I am a girl and sometimes girls do that. The next night my friend Joanna invited me over for dinner and naturally we spent the first 15 minutes cracking up as I told her my horror story, and guess what? A friend of hers set her up with the exact same doucheba–I mean, guy, five years ago and he also took her to brunch in Chelsea!
Then I went home and got down on the floor and curled up with my dog in her dog bed and lay with my head on her side, listening to her breathe in and out. I let up when her breathing got labored–she's only 12 pounds–but not before I said, into her fur, "Violet–never again. It's spinsterhood for us." No, I'm kidding. Do you honestly think I would allow this guy to ruin my faith in love? I need to find someone to marry just so I can tell him this story!
