“I like to think of myself as more of a wheeler and dealer per say…”

Okay, so it is official. Never trust a picture where a guy does the chin up move, it will only end in disastrous disappointment. This guy, who from here on out, I will refer to as “The Lisper,” strategically used the chin up move to disguise the deformity of his entire being. I think that JDate should have a sound bite for each person’s profile, so you can listen to their voice. I thought looks were really my only priority until I met this kid, and realized that I would be more inclined to deal with a glass eye or an arm nub over what turned out to be the thickest lisp I have ever heard. Tri-state area accents, like those embodied by New York and New Jersey natives, can be grating as it is, but put a lisp on top of those already characteristic voices and you have a whole other breed of unappealing.

I mentioned in my pre-date entry that I tend to be able to tell whether or not I like a person within five minutes of meeting them. I forgot to mention that I can also tell whether or not I would bang a person within that same short time frame. Unfortunately, whether or not I decide a person is bangable, I still find myself envisioning what sex with them would be like regardless. For instance, if I decide that a person is unbangable, I still find my mind wandering in the direction of “what if” this person somehow conned me into thinking their penis could come anywhere near my cooch. Unfortunately, throughout this entire date, as this guy was lisping away about his staunch conservatism, his love for his step-dad “Haaahvey” [read “Harvey”], and how identifying the brand of paper products used in public restrooms is something that is now ingrained into his blood for life, all I could think about was the kinds of noises he would probably make in bed or how I would probably laugh at him when he tried to moan my name (My name has an L and two S’s, so I am assuming it’s like the special Olympics of names for lispers).

I also couldn’t help but wonder what kinds of poor souls HAD actually slept with him. As stated previously, he had pictures with attractive girls in his profile picture. Now upon meeting him, I decided that there were numerous possibilities as to why these girls would agree to take a picture with such a Shrek-like figure. My first theory was that they were either special education teachers or speech pathologists. My second theory was that, because he went to the University of Miami, these girls were probably coked out of their minds (not my stereotype, but his—read on). My third theory was more basic—they were his sisters or cousins and he was just the genetic mishap (or more appropriately, the redheaded stepchild) of his family.

I know I sound superficial right now, but I have to get to the actual parts of our conversation that really just added insult to the injury of his lisp, moobs, overgelled hair, and 5’6” (not 5’8” as his profile stated) George Costanza-like frame. So apparently he works for his step-dad (the aforementioned “Haaahvey”) at a paper and chemical distribution company. In other words, he distributes paper and chemical goods to businesses/organizations all over the tri-state area. Now while most people just say what they do, and leave it at that, especially when it is a job that I concluded was that of a glorified truck driver, he could not shut up about it. I was slightly relieved that I could not get a word in edgewise, not that I have much to talk about since I am currently unemployed at the moment, but it was hilarious when he broached the topic of “graduate students” like myself.

The Lisper: Yeah…I always considered going back to school. [with a hint of inferiority about the fact I have a higher level of education than him but am 3 years younger]

Me: Oh yeah? I’m pretty much done with it, I need a break.

The Lisper: I guess I never really saw myself as a student. I hate studying. The thought of writing papers terrifies me. I like coming home and doing nothing.

Me: Yeah, I am still getting used to not having any obligations.

The Lisper: I’d say I would totally consider going back to school [here we go, the “I could totally do it! I’m so capable! But it doesn’t apply to my life.”]….but I always saw myself as more of a wheeler and dealer. I like being out there, selling things. I’m very much a salesman. On the road all the time, day and night, just selling things, meeting people, making friends. I like making people happy with goods.

It was at this point where I all but had a Tourette’s-like outburst along the lines of “Yeah I guess I wouldn’t be very happy if I took a shit in a public restroom and reached over only to find that there was not only no toilet paper, but also no paper towels, and I had to walk around the rest of the night with a giant skid mark developing on the ass-string of my thong” but I took another large sip of my Jameson’s on the rocks (or Jameson’s on the “wocks” as my date would say) and kept my mouth shut. And WTF, “wheeler and dealer”??? I didn’t realize it was the year 1925 and I was hobbling around the Lower East Side in a babushka getting conned into paying two cents more for a moldy herring sandwich over at Jewey Lowenstein’s food cart.

When I could no longer handle it, I excused myself to go to the bathroom, on two separate occasions within a half hour of one another, not to actually pee, but to text everyone SOS messages slash see if there was a window out of which I could climb. Unfortunately, there was not, and I was forced to return to the table and face a line of questioning about the texture and brand of the paper products in the bathroom. Once again, I had to resist the urge to say something like “the paper product was subpar, my lisping friend, in fact, so subpar, that there are paper pieces stuck to my cooch. It’s quite a sight to see.”

We also talked about our proudest accomplishments. I don’t really think I have accrued many accomplishments in my short lifetime, save not getting food poisoning from a McDonald’s yet. His proudest accomplishment, which surprisingly had nothing to do with paper towels, was the fact that he went to University of Miami and never tried coke despite the fact that everyone in his fraternity was a cokehead and that he had actually seen girls “beg for it” (Case in point: the girls in his JDate picture slash the only way he was able to lose his virginity. In my opinion, he should be thanking this drug for his good fortune.). As a “scholar” in the field of Higher Education Administration, I cannot imagine that UMiami would be very pleased that out of all the offerings their fine institution has for its students, the greatest accomplishment of this particular alum was his ability to resist doing coke while on campus. He also felt the need to specify at this moment that he still loved pot, with the kind of love that one has “for their own mother,” and that at any given time, he had a large bottle (yes, “bottle” was the exact word) of pot “this big” [made some exaggerated gestures with his arms—exact measurements unknown].

The date went on for about two hours. I want them back. Time passed just about as slowly as when you are high and waiting for some goddamn bagel bites to finish cooking in the microwave. He had two vodka-lemony girly looking drinks, insisting that he loved Jameson’s on the “wocks” just as much as I did, but that this was really his “jam.” Glad to know that you’re still a real man buddy. Those lemon drops will really put hair on your chest, though I wouldn’t know because you shave it so the gold from your three chains shines ever so brightly. Also his profile claim that he “always smells good” was a sham. I’m pretty sure “Curious” by Britney Spears does not count as respectable male cologne, but what do I know.

He texted me about an hour after the date ended, saying he had a good time and trying to invite me to his friend’s birthday party at a bar near the one we went to in Union Square. Clearly he was too blinded by my ginger charms to read more deeply into my overactive bladder and constant texting. I hoped for his sake that the next bar he went to carried his preferred brand of toilet paper.

The Inaugural Date: A Potential Jewcehead, if you will.

So I signed into my JDate account today to a slew of messages, naturally weeding out any weirdos above age 29 (and believe me there were A LOT) and of course, anyone who dares send me a "flirt" (cheesy pre-written messages offered by the site for people who can't just nut up and say "nice tits. lets drink."). Anyway, my first victim is looking to be a breed of Jew similar to my brother: short, obsessed with working out, wearing a questionable gold chain, and perhaps worst of all, he takes all of his pictures with his chin pointed upwards and eyes slightly squinting.* Every guy has their own special pose in photos but this one seems to be a favorite among a lot of guys I know because they think for some reason it makes them look like they are “the man”—shooting you a nod that basically says “yeah I see you and I am going to mess up that pussy the first chance I get.” My other theory about the chin-up pose is that this “come hither” look is supposed to detract from the fact that they are just not that attractive. Or that they have some sort of hideous deformity, like a scar, hairy mole, or a glass eye.

The photos themselves are mediocre at best, and unfortunately, the fact half of them are with his attractive female friends are not boding well for him. I understand when guys post pictures of themselves with other girls on a dating site, they are doing it to appear as if they are, once again, “the man,” and perhaps, most importantly, not dangerous. It’s the same concept as guys who bring their girl friends with them to the strip club. Strippers are more likely to approach guys who have girls with them because it implies that they are more harmless than the unaccompanied men in the club. It’s a slightly ridiculous thought process if you ask me. I’ve been to strip clubs with my guy friends who are almost all sexual deviants with questionable morals, not completely unlike me. Yet, solely on the basis of the fact they have me with them, none of this background information is considered by the stripper, who naturally approaches our table as if they have just touched base in the midst of the perverse game of tag taking place around them.

Nonetheless, his “About Me” looks innocent enough:

I'm straight forward, sensible, sarcastic and funny. I work hard in sales all over new york, new jersey and the tri state area. I'm looking for a real cute, smart, fun and sensible girl. I'm a good guy, a big sports fan and I ALWAYS SMELL GOOD. Just my thing.

…and the message he sent me wasn’t totally creepy:

hey....wanna meet for a drink in nyc or grab a bite tonight? Let me know. I think you're real cute..

Love Jameson on the rocks. Never get a hangover the next morning.

Ok, so maybe his profile and accompanying message are a little creepy, but I guarantee I am creepier, and not even in a flirtatious way. Also, his emphasis on how good he smells helps, but if his cologne is super strong I will probably whip out my inhaler and make a show of it. As a former English major, I slightly cringed at the incomplete sentences and rogue capitalizations, but as a Jameson’s lover, the fate of this guy remains yet to be seen. If he can really drink Jameson’s on the rocks, hold it together, and not be hungover the next day, he might have a chance. He also offered the possibility of food, which is always a plus in my book. When someone asks to meet up for a drink, they typically are trying to test the waters so if it’s awkward they can get out quickly and the bill is minimal. When food is in the picture, an already awkward date becomes infinitely more painful because your ability to escape is hindered by the quickness of the wait staff. In the past, when I’ve been on a date involving food, I make an effort to choose something that will not get all over my face. If I see that I don’t like the person (which I can tell usually within 5 minutes of meeting someone), then I will order the greasiest, fried, cheesy catastrophe to accompany my Jameson’s on the rocks just so I can visually and psychologically disgust them with my ballsy food choices.

Anyway, we shall see how much of his profile is true. Hopefully almost none of it, since he claims dates 2 or 3 could be “something fun like a baseball game,” which I view as being just about as much fun as say, slitting my wrists in a bathtub full of cats.

*I see these Jews as a sort of Guido Lite, because they share some of the same features of our Italian friends (i.e. tan, bejeweled, gelled hair, uses key phrases like “WHOA WHOA WHOA”), but typically do not sport them all at the same time.

Heartbreak with a Ginge of Hope

About a month ago, I was reluctantly dumped by a guy I've been dating for the past eight months. We will call him G. I could tell it was hard for him to do it, but it was probably harder for me to take given that I haven’t been broken up with since eighth grade by a guy so douchey his own sister sprayed Windex in his eye. Normally, I would say this was a blow to my ego, or the shell of one I have been developing since my beautiful nose job, but it was much more than that. G was the first guy I dated after breaking up with my boyfriend of six years, and coincidentally a decent human being (clarification: my opinion of what constitutes "decent" is slightly skewed due to my overall low expectations). Anyway, I thought was a great match for me in many ways—we had the same inappropriate sense of humor, pension for fast food, and love for pugs.

I met G on JDate shortly after my first big break up. I originally decided to do online dating because it is really hard to meet people in NYC, especially when you are a graduate student and have little time to go out, and thus, fewer chances to find fresh meat. I figured going on random dates would be a nice way to break up the monotony of school and get my bearings in the single world. I also wanted free food and someone to fund my Jameson’s addiction. Given the length of my last relationship, I had purchased six months outright thinking that it sounded like a reasonable amount of time to test out my goods. Ironically, G was the first guy I agreed to meet with from the site, and the only one who actually got the goods.

While from the outside, the match seemed just peachy, the aforementioned low expectations definitely blurred my judgement of what constitutes a good boyfriend. While G was an enormous step up from my first boyfriend with regard to looks, personality, and overall tolerance of me as a person, my ex was such a prick that by the time I was done with him, a night out Chris Brown was looking like a pretty good option. G sucked at communicating (I mean if you only want to text, that's fine, but when a message surpasses three paragraphs maybe picking up the fucking phone is more appropriate) and perhaps more annoyingly, he never came to my apartment. I live above 96th Street, so my address did not comply with his modified map of NYC that includes about three neighborhoods outside of his own small pocket of the Upper West Side.

I made a LOT of excuses for his lack of effort because I thought I was happy with him despite the fact he wasn't happy with himself as a person. Womp womp. If I woke up every morning in fucking Trump Towers I probably wouldn't be whining like a little bitch. Nonetheless, It wasn't until after he admitted his selfishness and lack of preparedness for a girlfriend during his personal quarter life crises, that I began to see that he probably did me a great service.

My friends think it’s hilarious that I chose JDate, because lord knows I grew up in the WASPiest town imaginable and was always the token Jewish kid. To be honest, G was the most Jewish thing I've done since my Bat Mitzvah. I don’t know exactly why I chose JDate, but it probably has to do with the fact that I knew it was the least intense. There are just so many dating sites out there, with their creepy advertisements about matching people on 9038409384034 levels of love and devotion, and they ask too many questions for my taste. JDate, on the other hand, cuts right to the chase by making obvious the one thing I actually give a shit about when selecting a new victim: Looks. Each page is set up with a huge picture (you have the option to upload more) with basic information next to it. Perhaps my favorite part was how when you go to the “Activities/Interests” portion of your profile, you literally have a checklist for personality traits, hobbies, etc. In other words, you don’t even have to attempt to be witty and creative. Save that shit for the actual date—a date you are not even going to get unless I think your picture looks promising.

So here it goes, my second trip into the dating world. Am I ready? Debatable. Will I make some poor decisions? Most likely. Do I have “needs”? I am a redhead, after all. Boom.