Moving to Wordpress!

To my small, but awesome, group of readers so far-

I decided to move this party over to Wordpress today because they have more features and options. I still have to play around to make the homepage look prettier, but all postings from this point forward can be found at the following address:

http://gingeoflove.wordpress.com/

If you have Twitter, or any other sort of social networking tools, if you could choose to "follow me" (haha that sounds silly) again that would be great :)

I apologize for the lull in postings since the Fest, I am in the process of writing my next one and it should be up later today or tomorrow. Thank you for all of your support thus far!!

Take care and keep reading,

MG

Inglorious Bald-terd

So a couple of days ago, I went on my date with Uncle Fester.

As planned, we met at the Starbucks on 73rd and Columbus. I had left my apartment around 6:40 and arrived at the store at exactly 6:57. I thought this was great timing on my part, but clearly not good enough for the Fest. As I approached the door, I didn't see him outside so I figured that he was either inside or running a couple of minutes late (which would be understandable considering he was coming from Brooklyn). I was looking forward to potentially having about five minutes of peace to recuperate from my sweaty walk and train ride, and maybe even try to take a shit before the trail of tears length walk upon which we were about to embark. Unfortunately, all of these dreams were shattered within seconds of me considering them, when all of a sudden, with lightening speed and a gazelle-like leap, the Fest flew out of the Starbucks in all of his hairless glory, with an outwardly extended hand and a pleather messenger bag flapping behind him. The remainder of the day's sun glimmered on his razor-nicked skull (which, by the way, revealed that he was actually on the verge of total hair loss), and for a brief, shining moment, I felt like a bald Jesus had landed before me.

So we shook hands, and his was probably the sweatiest I have ever felt. I almost wanted to be like, "don't be nervous, Fest. I don't bite," but that would be a lie, and you should never lie to Jesus. He gave me an elongated once over before he decided to make a comment about how he promised he would not kill and dismember me in the park. Real nice, Fest. Those kinds of jokes are okay on the Internet, but not in person where you are clearly carrying an oversized messenger bag containing God only knows what. I mean, you're a measly intern for God sakes. What could you possibly have in there?

Anyway, we walk into Starbucks. I make note of the fact that I will most definitely be ordering an iced tea because of the disaster that will inevitably follow my regular Venti iced coffee order if physical movement is involved more than 100 feet from a restroom. Of course, the only part of this note that I share with Fest is that I will be drinking an iced tea this evening. We both approach the register and the cashier gives me my second once-over in the past three minutes and exclaims "Oh, you must be Ginge. Fest refused to order without you!! I kept asking what he wanted and he was like 'no, no, I am waiting for a date'". So the Fest was not only at Starbucks a couple of minutes early, he was there so early that he had nothing better to do than to divulge unnecessary details to a complete stranger.

So Fest ordered for both of us, getting an iced tea for himself as well. Besides his abnormally sweaty hand, this is the second sign that he is beyond nervous and I find it slightly endearing...for about two seconds until we got to the dressings table and he asked me "what do you put in this?" while gesturing accusingly toward to the cup of iced tea with his index finger like it was a vat of ferret droppings. I told him I usually do two Equals because I never use real sugar. At this point, a real man (save for the Diabetic ones) would be like "ew" and substitute the Equals for regular sugar packets, or do something to personalize it for themselves. Not the Fest. He took two equals from the container, and copied me step by step as I tore my packets, dumped them into the drink, recapped it, and ferociously shook it around - all with the innocent, eager expression of a small child trying to please its parent (the bald head didn't help to this image either, by the way).

So not much happened between Starbucks and the Strawberry Fields Pavilion besides us namedropping people that both of us might have in common. Once we actually got to the pavilion, we took a seat on one of the benches facing the fountain and the Central Park Boathouse and commence an hour and a half long conversation that included a few memorable moments:

As mentioned previously, the Fest is from the Midwest. He revealed more about this, stating that he had no Jewish friends growing up (similar to me), but that he also had to hide his Jewishness because it was "dangerous" out there. Ok, Fest, now wait one second. You mean to tell me that people tried to fuck with you? I mean, that's just not wise. Why would you ever approach a wild-eyed bald man wielding a mop?

He also felt that it was appropriate to discuss how all of his friends from high school were married and had kids now. He conceded that he felt awkward when he went home and hung out with them, but that the reason he came to New York was to find a Jew with whom to do the same. As he made this statement, he had a sick little smirk on his face. It was the first time during the date that I noticed his smile - clearly another vestige of his upbringing in a region whose lack of Jews inevitably means a lack of quality orthodontic care. His teeth were like fun-sized yellow Chiclets. While he did have his front teeth, his canines trumped their existence to the point that I felt I was looking into the mouth of one of cats with which I will inevitably spend the rest of my life.

Trying to hide my disgust for the ideas of dirty, Gatorade-stained children and landlocked states, I decided that it was an appropriate time to casually reach into my bag and check my phone for the time and/or any messages. This, of course, was a huge mistake. With Patrick Batemen-like accuracy, the Fest snapped at me for my misstep in date-night etiquette:

Fest: IS EVERYTHING OKAY WITH YOUR PHONE?

Me: What?

Fest: WELL WHAT OTHER REASON WOULD YOU HAVE TO LOOK AT THE PHONE? HM?

[It was here that I decided to make him immediately regret his decision to confront me.]

Me: Oh. Well my mom had her last breast cancer surgery today so I was seeing if my dad sent me any messages about how she's been doing since he picked her up from the hospital. [Do not worry, I am not going to hell in a hand basket for this one. I talked to my mom before I went on the date, and she said if I needed to send any SOS messages to people in the middle of the date, I should use her surgery as an excuse to shut him up, kind of like she does when my dad confronts her about credit card bills.]

Fest: Oh, er, eh, meh, aldskjf;lakdsjf;lasdjf;ladsfjadf. [That's right, Fest. Don't play with fire because you're gonna get burned right back.]

The silence that ensued was legendary. He was visibly squirming in his seat and I watched his gaze dart between a homeless man blowing bubbles and an adorable old couple holding hands by the Boathouse lake. I began to consider which of these two scenes bore the closest resemblance to Fest's future love life in NYC and decided that if I was getting the cats, he was getting the bubbles.

So I let the awkwardness fester, quite literally, for about another five minutes before I suggested that we walk further into the park. I figured a change of scenery would diffuse the situation that I was secretly enjoying a little too much. As we were walking, I asked him basic questions, starting with how it was playing football at Cornell. This question only led to further disillusionment on my behalf, as Fester conceded that the shirt in his profile picture was for intramural football, not the real team. I think that he sensed my disappointment because without hesitation, he blurted, "BUT...I have a brown belt in Karate!"

Is this bitch serious? I guess this Karate obsession is how he survived his young life as a Jew in the bible-hugging Heartland. I was actually looking forward to this date, for if nothing else, to prove to my friends that not everyone I choose to go out with is a nerd - that I am capable of SOME variety. But no. The one "athlete" I manage to find is an expert in the sport millions of worried mothers enlist their wimpy children in every year to teach them "self-defense" against school bullies. I know this from personal experience, because my brother and I did Karate for years. What other choice did our mother have? We were both red-haired AND Jewish. For once, I wanted to cruise around with the bully! Not his unfortunate bald victim.

I acted interested for about five minutes before he questioned me about my own athletic involvement. I admitted that I used to fence and now I pretty much just run when I have the time. He took this as an opportunity to try to sell the idea of mixed martial arts and Karate to me, that I should know how to "protect" myself on the "mean streets" of Harlem besides with my pink Mase canister. For the second time within fifteen minutes, I was forced me to ask myself the question: Is this bitch serious? My streets are not mean and most all of my neighbors are sweet old people or young families. The alcoholics all know where I live now and I take cat calls as a compliment. All it means is that "I still got it." Plus, I too have a Starbucks on my block.

But Fest could not believe it. He asked how I planned to defend myself in the event of an attack. At this point, I really didn't give a shit what happened for the rest of this date. He snapped at me for glancing at my phone and dispelled my initial impression of him as a rough and tumble Ivy League jock. He was nice, and he was clearly trying, but I was annoyed and decided it was time to drop the one bomb that most every guy I have come across in my post-Maryland life cannot stand: Smoking. I don't really smoke anymore, and it was more of a social/stress thing in college, but knowing how many guys absolutely hate it, I decided to use it as a way to metaphorically Mase the Fest:

"Well, my number one method of protecting myself on the 'mean streets' is smoking large amounts of cigarettes. Really, if you're walking fast and chain-smoking, people typically won't come near you. Would you approach someone with a lit device in their hand, let alone a menthol one? Probably not."

Unfortunately, the Fest did not take the bait. Rather than responding with the typical "ew, that's so unhealthy" or "you're going to be ugly in a matter of years," he bit back:

"Ginge, I could not agree more. And you have that look to you...like as it is, I probably would be afraid to approach you. But with a cigarette in your hand? Oh man. You must look like such a bad ASS. But menthols? That's...um interesting? Wouldn't have pictured that choice."

Damnit, Fest. WHY are you agreeing with me? It's one thing to copy my Starbucks order, but you think me chain smoking my way to safety is a great idea? And why can't you picture me with menthols? Hm? That is a little close-minded of you, don't you think? Last I checked, you were "an aspiring prosecutor," not an expert in market research.

So after this enlightening portion of the conversation, I suggested we head back towards the train. We made some more small talk and hugged goodbye, but not before he took one more jab, or should I say, Karate chop at my neighborhood: "Ginge, text me to let me know you got home safely." Okay, dad...except my dad is in his late sixties and still has more hair than you. Boom.

Master Ginger's "About Me" (for future reference)

All this time I have been tearing my prospective dates' profiles apart, I have been remiss in sharing my own self-description, which is the reason I am able to lure these questionable characters into my web of evil. Here it is for future reference.

My "About Me":

I just graduated from Columbia with an MA in Higher Education Administration. I'm currently searching for a job, but in true adult-o-lescent fashion, I'm in no big rush. I enjoy running in Riverside Park, going out with friends, the beach, movies, eating disgusting amounts of McDonald's, and Jameson's on the rocks. I also snort when I laugh.

8 entertaining messages I have received as a result of the aforementioned information that I refuse to respond to because they are from trolls and/or 40 year olds:

1. Soo I was reading through your profile and checking out your pictures you seem really cool - so I've got to reach out. The fact that you are also a Riverside Park fan definitely earned you some bonus points :)

How was your weekend – did you do anything fun?

Yesterday was a Coney Island/Brighton Beach adventure for me and some friends. Got Nathans of course and a ton of sun (the weather beautiful!) so I’m kind of a Jewish lobster right now :)

Headed to the parents in a bit… it's funny... I think my favorite thing to do there is open the fridge. It's stocked with maybe the greatest things - home cooked foods, meats, cheeses, sauces and beverages of all kinds. Yes, definitely a whole lot different than the fridge in my apartment! So there’s a realistic chance I'll be about 100 pounds heavier than my jdate pictures here after I leave tonight :)

And by the way I found it really cool that you just finished up at Columbia and have the rest of the summer... maybe even year to just enjoy. Very jealous :)

Anyways I'm looking forward to hearing back and learning a bit more…

Have a great day!

-Howie

2. A girl who drinks whiskey is a girl I need to date. How is adult-o-lescent life going recently?

Eric

3. Como estas

How was your not-spent-job-searching humpday?

I like that you enjoy running outdoors by the water, but on the UWS? Is that where you live? Its not a deal-breaker, I just wanna know. As for other important questions, do you like bloody marys? How about gummi bears?'

4. I like ur philosophy on job searching, even though it may reveal a slight peter pan syndrome...but ur cute soooo...maybe I can learn some more - Richie

5. You have a good sense of humor!

6. hey...ur pretty cute for a redhead :) can i take you to mcdonald's sometime? if you're lucky, ill let you super size.

-rockkstarr007

7. is it true what they say? red heads know the best spicy thai food?

8. snorting when you laugh is that hereditary?

Fest's Response to my Warning Message

G,

I'm not sure whether to laugh or feel a little scared now (that you are going to chloroform ME and drag me into the park, and that you last message was some form of heads-up). LOL. Rest assured, tuesday at 7pm you're meeting an aspiring prosecutor. The only thing you have to worry about is (1) me tossing you into jail for cocaine posession or eating a disgusting amount of McDonalds and/or (2) having too good of a time. ;) I'd allow you to pat me down before the date to check for contraband, but I usually save that sort of thing for after the 3rd or 4th date. LOL. You're in good hands and I'm looking forward to meeting you.

-F

Ahhh Fest you're killing me!!! Two LOL's?? And a smiley face?? Not to mention the fact that you equated an illegal drug with the greatest restaurant in the world (actually he isn't completely wrong there...McDonald's is quite addictive and fast food is always being portrayed as some sort of lethal substance by the moms of weebly wobbly kids who just can't say "NO!"). I also wonder why he would assume I would have coke on me. Hmm. Maybe my paranoid message put out the nervous drug addict vibe (though he couldn't be further from the truth).

Not gonna lie, though. I absolutely love that he cracked a joke about patting him down. Clever (not just an attempt like his "Alaska" reference), and flirtatious. But the "3rd or 4th date"? Either you are quite the gentleman or you overestimate the business hours of the muffin shop. Then again, I have always heard that the 4th date is the unofficial "wanna come back to my place" date, but I have never been one for strict schedules. This line also made me a little suspicious given that he played college football at an Ivy League school which typically translates to mad cooch from team groupies, so I did a little research. I rechecked the area code of his phone number from the text and boom, mystery solved: Fest is from the Midwest. My friend, SB, goes to school out there and says those boys move at a snail's pace with the ladies - chivalric, considerate, etc. In other words, the boys of America's Heartland are nothing like the seemingly not housebroken breed with which I am used to dealing on the tri-state area. This should be a nice change of pace, if he is actually telling the truth, that is.

Well, Fest. You have made quite the turnaround from my initial assessment of you based upon your profile. Let's see if I am really in "good hands." That's Ginge's stand.

Date scheduled for Tuesday (not cousin Wednesday!) with Uncle Fester

So I have had some recent correspondences with the Fest and we have finally planned our date. He actually isn't sounding too bad, and he even changed his JDate profile picture to a nice black and white side shot where he looks like a distinguished bald man, confident in his reflective glory. I won't go into a long rant about how black and white photos tend to disguise complexion issues and how side angles are always more flattering (I myself am a huge fan of the side hand on the hip pose) because I want to be optimistic. This picture is promising. He looks like the kind of guy that I might actually let massage me. Emphasis on MIGHT.

Here are some messages between us over the past week in ascending order:

Hey (insert Ginge's actual name here). HOw are you? And how was your 4th of July? I was at a rooftop party in brooklyn with some friends. I had an amazing time. Hope you had fun too. How is the job search going? Any progress? Sure, we could definitely plan something out..... I'm not exactly sure what my schedule looks like for the week just yet. But I've been meaning to check out some of central park while the weather stays nice. Would you be interested in that?

Ginge - How was Bethany Beach? Tuesday works for me. I get out of work at around 6:30. How does coffee in central park sound? Tonight I'm off to karaoke and salsa dancing with some friends. Should be fun!

Ginge - Let's meet at 7:00 at the Starbucks between 72nd and 73rd on colombus avenue. Have you ever been to the pavilllion in Strawberry fields? I've been meaning to get out there. I was thinking we could grab coffee and walk into hte park.

The one thing that alarmed me throughout all of these messages (minus his apparent vendetta against spell check) was his desire to have our first meeting in the park. Now I love Central Park, and all NYC parks for that matter, but for a first date? I have a feeling a lot of Law & Order episodes begin in very much the same manner. As a result, I sent him the following reply as a warning to him that nobody fucks with the ginge:

Hey Fest-Sure. We can meet at 7p at Starbucks. Do you live on the UWS around there? You should know that I will use this initial meeting spot as an opportunity to scan you for questionable materials, like a handkerchief and chloroform, that you could potentially use on me prior to taking me to the park. I have been to the pavilion in Strawberry Fields and it's nice, but hopefully "Strawberry Fields" isn't really code for some sort of ditch or abandoned woods in which you plan to leave my dismembered body, because that wouldn't be ku. Anyway, I am looking forward to meeting you and hope you have a great rest of your weekend! -Ginge

I know the message is a little intense, but at least I'm being honest. Plus, on some level he might find it charming or hilarious, or even think that it is very smart of me to have these kind of concerns. It's funny, though, because I don't think my biggest concern for this date is even really the possibility of being chloroformed, it's that I will have an extremely hard time focusing on anything this kid is talking about because I will be too busy trying not to shit myself as a result of the fatal combination of Starbucks Coffee and brisk NYC-style walking through the park. I can already envision myself profusely nodding my head while awkwardly hopping from foot to foot and squeezing my butt cheeks together.

Anyway, he sent me a text today since I gave him my phone number, figuring it was easier for planning than continuing to exchange messages through the site. He said: "Hey Alaska. It's Fest. You have a jdate message. Eat lots of crabs lol". I can only assume that the "Alaska" reference was for Alaskan King Crabs because I told him that I was having a crab feast in Bethany Beach for my friend's birthday (even though these crabs were technically Maryland ones), and the "lol" could have easily been substituted with a punctuation mark, but hey - it is hands-down better than an emoticon. Despite the cheesiness, I like that he was clearly trying to be clever, even if it sounded a tad caveman-esque (Thanks, J). But then again, what do you expect from a former college football player? Nonetheless, I'm impressed. He's just trying to work with what charm he's got and I can respect that.

So the date is for Tuesday. At least I know that if he starts to say stupid things and piss me off (though I have a hard time believing that anything could be worse than The Lisper), I can probably shut him up by shoving a light bulb in his mouth.*

*Addams Family reference: Uncle Fester was known to be able to illuminate a light bulb by putting it in his mouth.

Dating Prospect #2: Bald and Probably Toothless

So after my wonderful date with The Lisper, one would think I would be disheartened. Nonsense! I have found yet another victim to either love, or tear apart, the latter being more likely. This dude’s picture sends a few warning signs which could also be positives. He is bald, or has a shaved head, despite being only 24, but sometimes if you start balding early it is better just to shave it all off. It shows that you have self confidence and maybe, just maybe, will try a little bit harder in the sack. My mom always fed me lines like that about short men, bald men, ugly men, Jewish men, or all of the above. I remember being ten and coming home from Hebrew school and talking about this kid Marc who had a crush on me:

Me: Marc Stern has a crush on me.

Mom: Aw, he is cute. His mom is nice.

Me: Ew, mom. He is short.

Mom: Short men try harder.

Me: What does that even mean?

Mom: They just…try harder. In ALL aspects of life. (note: My dad is 5’8”)

Then as I got older, it went something like this:

Mom: I think you should date Jason.

Me: I would like to attract someone taller than 5’7” and actually attractive.

Mom: Stop being such a bitch. No one will take care of you as good as a short, homely man.

Me: You mean as a provider?

Mom: Well, hopefully that too. I was referring more to their bedroom skills. What else do they have going for them? They have to compensate somewhere.

If what my mom taught me was correct, this bald, potentially toothless (his two front teeth are present, but they are shorter than the surrounding teeth, sort of like a dog, or wolf) guy who I will refer to as Uncle Fester (from the Addams Family), or Fester for short, from here on out, should be rocking my world soon.

Anyway, I digress (as usual). Let’s return to Fester’s issues. He is wearing a Cornell Football T-shirt. G went to Cornell and knew basically everyone ever because he was a “minor celebrity” on campus, or so he claimed. Fester could just be one of those guys who wear T-shirts from colleges that they didn’t actually go to, thinking that the Cornell name would make him more attractive to me, when a guy's college is actually quite irrelevant. I just hate it when I have to listen to Cornell kids preach their little “Well, uh, Cornell might be the easiest Ivy to get into, but the hardest to graduate from” mantra to their critics because they have some sort of inferiority complex.

This was Fester’s message to me. I can just imagine him greedily drooling over my picture through his missing front teeth, shivering and “heh-heh-heh-ing” a little bit through his darkly encircled eyes:

Hey. How are you? I can't really help you with the job search.....but I might be able to take care of the Jameson's Irish Whiskey. Just a thought. You have a really cute smile. I'd love to hear more about u. Ben

No shit Fest, I know you can’t help me with my job search. I have no interest in doing a Mr. Clean commercial with you. But yes, I am happy you offered the whiskey. It will take the edge off of what will inevitably be a date where I find myself continuously resisting the urge to pet you while blurting out something akin to “Do the drapes match the carpet?”

I have a “really cute smile”? What makes a smile “cute”? I have a damn fine smile. I had eight years of braces, and still wear my retainers every night, after all. C’mon Fest. YOU have the cute smile! Mostly because it bears a strong resemblance to a Jack-O-Lantern or my pug’s mouth when it’s panting and humping my leg.

Nonetheless, I will agree to a drink with you. Especially since you referred to Jameson’s by its full name. Also because your “About Me” has a few flaws, but is not completely awful:

Hi there. A few of my goals in no particular order: saving the world, learning how to cook, and maybe meeting someone nice on j-date. I love laughing and making other people laugh. I'm attracted to people who are driven and have goals for themselves but also prioritize friends and family. I think that goofiness can also be SEXY in proper amounts. I like playing tennis, jogging around the city, and going to the gym. I'm slightly addicted to massage, both giving and receiving. I love traveling and lived in Sweden for a year. I'd love to hear from you if you are a nice jewish girl who knows how to treat a guy right ;)

Your goals are transparent, but I can tell you are trying. I see right through your game. Saving the world? That goal is completely overshadowed by the fact you listed a massage addiction. Massage, no matter how you cut it, is sketch sketch sketch. I know this, because I worked as a sales associate in a massage franchise for two years. Massage therapists, especially the male ones I worked with, were always spending a little too much time feeling up my glutes. What are you going to do? Start a campaign entitled “Rub one out for World Peace”? Please. By listing your love of massage, you have automatically ruined any chance of me, or any girl for that matter, not being creeped out by you. In fact, I am sure that when I meet you, my mind will launch into one of its awful sexual visions like I had with The Lisper. Yours will probably involve me jerking you off under a jiz hardened hand towel in a dimly lit, cigarette tinged room somewhere in South Jersey. And please, “giving and receiving”? More like just “receiving.” No one actually likes “giving,” especially when it comes to sexual stuff like massages. The only reason anyone ever “gives” is because it is the only way to “receive.”

Cooking? Please. I know you are trying to appear sensitive, but when a guy says he wants to learn how to cook, it is most definitely an empty offer. What they are really saying is, “If you cook for me, I’ll attempt to cook for you” which really boils down to “Cook for me! I have no intentions of learning!” I know this, because G always talked about how he could cook slash enjoyed cooking. Did I ever see proof of this? Not really. Unless you count all of the times he talked about how he cooked for his ex and whined about how she never cooked for him in return. Then he would pair these complaints with photos that he had taken with his cell phone of said meals that he had cooked for her. In other words, “I was never actually planning to cook for you. It was just a nice idea I wanted to implant in your head to see if you were going to make the first move towards the kitchen. Now that you have, I’m just going to sit here on this couch while you fry me some chicken in a dreidel apron.”

Probably my biggest problem with this paragraph is the part about goofiness in “proper amounts.” I’m sure we’d be compatible on some levels, but I am goofy all the damn time. I’m sure if I show one extra shred of my personality, he’ll have a breakdown like my first ex boyfriend did (Let’s call him Patrick Bateman--albeit a much less attractive version--because he is a narcissistic prick who works in finance and probably hides dead body parts in his freezer). At our six year anniversary dinner at Dinosaur BBQ, I took a potato ball off of his plate and bit into it while it was still on my fork while making “nom nom nom” noises. He dropped his utensils and screamed “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING???” as if he had just walked in on me diddling myself with Hitler's moustache. His explanation for screaming at me in the middle of a this West Harlem BBQ joint like I had just taken a shit on the floor in the middle of Buckingham Palace had to do with his new found belief in the rules of proper dining etiquette: You NEVER bite something off of a fork. Either you put the entire thing in your mouth, or you cut it into pieces with a knife. I should have taken his advice later that night; unfortunately his dick never merited being cut into smaller pieces. Boom.

Anyway, despite his resemblance to my least favorite Addams Family character, I feel like we may get along since we have similar priorities (life ambitions, looking good, family, friends etc.). Things will go especially well for the Fest if I find out that his baldness is in keeping with my “damaged goods” theme (i.e. he has a genetic defect, or better yet, Alopecia). Except upon reexamining his photo, I noticed he has eyebrows. So I guess he’s just plain bald. Wish me luck!

Example of a message to which I would never respond

You're beyond gorgeous. If you are not the best looking girl on jdate...then you are tied for 1st !

Not sure how you can be single. Do you stutter or are you super clumsy? :) Tell you parents they have super jewish genes !

:) Okay - so maybe I am a fan. So sue me :)

I figured that since I provided what appeared to be an acceptable message from The Lisper, I should provide an example of a message I would never respond to, like this one. Let’s analyze it.

“If you are not the best looking girl on jdate…then you are tied for 1st!”

This could be construed as a compliment, if the majority of Jewish girls on JDate were actually decent looking, rather than that special breed that thinks wearing ill-fitting spandex and a cut up sweatshirt with their hair on the side of their head and huge sunglasses is acceptable to society. I think the Mike Posen Song “Cooler than Me” was written for the Jewish girls that attended the University of Maryland, or really any other large state school that houses large amounts of my people. They do wear “designer shades just to hide [their] face.” So I guess the bottom line of why this first line of the e-mail is open to criticism is that by calling me the “best looking girl on jdate” he has ultimately told me I am like the smartest kid with down syndrome. I want him to send me a picture of who I am “tied” with, just to verify whether or not this is a genuine compliment.

“Not sure how you can be single.”

Neither am I, to be honest. Let’s chalk that one up to my fetish with “damaged goods.” I’m like the Statue of Liberty. I take the poor huddled masses (read: people with low self esteem and other problems, like glasses or a peg leg) and give them entry to my golden door (this can be interpreted however you please) so they feel better about themselves. Once they realize that I am spoiling them, they begin to take the situation for granted and slack off in effort. I am actually a pretty awesome girlfriend, or so I’ve been told. It was actually G’s favorite phrase about me: “You are so AMAZING and DESERVE someone who can make you HAPPY.” The aforementioned capitalized words were used so many times over the course of our relationship that I have stricken them from my vocabulary. G, despite his Ivy League pedigree, needs a lesson on complimentary adjectives that surpass the fourth grade level. Anyway, I digress.

“Do you stutter or are you super clumsy? :)”

Stutter? No, but I have banged a guy who did (damaged goods). Super clumsy? A lot of the time. Why must people assume that since I am on JDate that I have problems (even though I pretty much assume that they do)? One in five relationships begins online today—well, according to that match.com commercial. I don’t have a problem meeting guys, but they typically aren’t the kind of guys who want to actually date me. Then again, I’m not exactly looking for a relationship right now, so when I say “date” it’s more in reference to being fed and a conversation that extends beyond “holy boobs!.” One of my bosses always told me: “You don’t date people you meet at a bar. You just don’t.” It’s something I have always taken to heart. Plus, you can’t find damaged goods at the bars, unless they are alcoholics, and those are not the endearing kind of damaged goods to which I am usually attracted to (chronic twitch > vomiting on my shoes).

“Tell you parents they have super jewish genes !”

Sure, Tony Soprano, I will tell “you parents” they have good genes. Then I’ll whip out my pistol and whack you down by the Hudson River. It’s called spell check asshole. Or even a second read, which you would have done if you really cared about impressing me. As for the “super jewish genes!”, I have a feeling this kid would be slightly upset if I told him that my mom is actually Italian. It’s like cheating. Italian mixed with anything makes you better looking than you would have been otherwise. I may have red hair, but because I am half Italian, I was able to escape the ginger blight of paleness. So it’s probably her you can thank for me not turning out like a complete troll. Well, her and the plastic surgeon. It’s my dad you can thank for my ability to malign you on this blog.

:) Okay - so maybe I am a fan. So sue me :)

Sue you? Who says that phrase, “So sue me” anymore? I think I actually want to sue you, if for nothing else but because you have used a total of three smiley faces over the course of this message like a seventh grader who just got their AOL 4.0 privileges back (credit for the AOL reference must be given to my friend Justine). Your profile says you are 32, but I am convinced you are actually closer to 80. I think I should set you up on a male date with The Lisper so you can trade clutch phrases from the early twenties and screw people over at your food cart together. Plus your photo is completely blurry, which might be worse than the chin up move that really fucked me over last week.

“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.