Bobbing for Adam’s Apple in the Big Apple: Epilogue
I’ve told the story of my adventures in NYC to many friends (some have had the misfortune of hearing it >5 times) and in the end, everyone wants to know: “Do you still keep in touch with Adam?” This is one of the reasons that prompted me to write an Epilogue this multi-part saga.
The short answer is yes: Adam and I still communicate. But, before I get to that, let me detail the denouement with Tony the Chef.
What I failed to mention in Part 2 of this post, is that during our date, I added Tony to my Facebook. (Why, you ask? Well, what was I supposed to do when Tony was figuratively breathing down my neck as I searched for him on Facebook, with his smart phone in hand and at the ready, so he could accept my friend request right away?)
The first thing that Tony did once we were ‘Facebook Friends’ was what any self-respecting creep would do: went through my entire profile, and ‘Liked’ all of my bikini shots. Thanks, Tony. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a man who appreciates my body, but at that stage of our ‘relationship’, he was sending the wrong message. But, as you’ll see, at least his message was consistent throughout…
And truth be told, I’m used to this: i.e. guys ogling my bikini shots. A close guy friend once confessed that the first thing he does when a girl adds him to Facebook, is go through all her beach photos.
Tony and I chatted a few times via the Facebook chat. For your entertainment, here’s an excerpt of our conversations:
Tony: hi baby (: what at are you up 2
Me: going to bed in like 5 min; have to get up early to get ready for my conference
Tony: oh i thought u going to ask meet to come and meet u
Me: yeah, no
haha; sorry! I had to be ready to work tomorrow
Tony: ); when u will come again in ny
Me: Aug 2012
Tony ): no u have to come sooner
(Do I now?!)
Tony: why u dont find the same job but in ny
Me: Because I like where I live.
Seriously, I don't want to move to NY just because. Maybe in a year or 2 I will, but now right now.
Tony: you have to choose me or where u live
(well, that’s an easy choice… and that’s what I told him…)
Me: you know, I've known you for 1.5 hours. So, it's an easy choice to make.
Tony: hahahah, yea i know but i am good guy good husband for u
[…]
Me: Met any exciting people as of late?
Tony: Yea but nothing special! What about you?
Me: Nope - but that's to be expected. Good thing I'm not desperate. I figure I'll give it another 8 years then I'll start getting worried.
Tony: Oh than i can't wait for you
(Oh dear! How will I ever get on with my life?!)
Me: I hope that you weren't seriously planning on doing that!
Tony: Doing what ?
Me: waiting for me
Tony: Why not ?
Me: Because you met me for 1 hr, and I live in Canada, and don't actually have any intention of moving to NY. Or the US, for that matter.
Tony: I move to Canada
(Yes, b'y?!)
Me: Really? Well, I hope it's because you want to, and not for anyone. You are a really nice guy, but not my type. Although, I have to say, but the sound of it, girls in Canada are much nicer, so you'd probably have better luck finding someone here.
Tony: Thanks
(I won’t even start on how I feel about people who don’t believe in capitalization, punctuation, and/or substitute words with numbers.)
See what I mean about Tony being consistent? Consistently creepy. Following that final exchange, I deleted and blocked him. Gents (and Ladies too)… it is absolutely unacceptable to want to move to another country for someone you had known for 1 hour. It is not romantic. It’s a ticket to a restraining order.
On to Adam. I already mentioned that we still converse, and quite regularly at that. He continues to entertain me with his escapades; and I entertain him with mine. I’d describe our relationship as ‘friendship’; nothing more nothing less.
In fact – and I’ll withhold the corroborating details – I’m pretty sure that had we met under different circumstances (i.e. those where I was actually looking to have a relationship in New York) then it probably wouldn’t have worked out with Adam. We might not even have met.
What I take away from my debaucheries in New York is a great memory. And a friend. J
Bobbing for Adam’s Apple in the Big Apple – Part III
I awoke on Saturday morning shortly after 12. Sleeping in is a luxury I don’t often indulge in. But, given that I didn’t get to sleep until 5 am, I felt that I was entitled to it. Plus, what did I really have to do today? Go on a second date with Adam?! Easy peasy lemon squeezy. And as it turns out, it really was! At least, getting that 2nd date.
Upon awakening, I had several text messages requiring my attention: one was from my colleagues inviting me to dinner that night at Nobu, a Japanese-style restaurant in Tribeca co-owned by Robert De Niro. Another was… from Adam. Adam had made good on his promise and texted me a link to the lecture he’d mentioned in our conversation on Friday. Seeing this as my ‘in’ for Date #2, I texted back:
“Thanks muchly! What are your plans for today?”
Adam reply was swift: “[...] nothing spontaneous, but we can plan something if you are up for it.”
YES! (See what I mean? Easy!) And so I replied that I’d be up for checking out the chocolate store he had recommended. In response to which, Adam texted:
“OK then, how about maybe pool game… Best Long Island Iced Tea… and yummy chocolates to top it off?”
How can a girl say ‘no’ to such marvelous proposal? I replied, requesting details of the meeting time and place, stating that I needed a couple of hours to get some stuff done, and mentioning also that I had dinner reservations at 8, but that we could kill the afternoon with his plans. Adam replied with the address of the venue, and suggested we meet at 2:30. I agreed.
(This next little bit may seem to be irrelevant to the story, but I assure you, it is not.) Before meeting up with him, I had to accomplish 3 things: get breakfast, go to Macy’s and Victoria’s Secret. Let’s face it, if you’re a girl visiting New York, you can drop a pretty penny on clothes, so I – exercising an unusual amount of self-restraint – decided to limit myself to only those 2 stores. After perusing the sales racks of Macy’s, I came away with a GORGEOUS black, silk, one-shoulder dress. I almost wolf whistled at myself in the dressing room when I tried it on. The dress screamed SEXY and at 65% off, I couldn’t resist. I then had similar luck at VS, but that’s not crucial to the story.
With 2:30 coming up on the clock, and with my purchases in hand, I hopped on the subways and headed to our rendez-vous location in Soho. Shamefully, I have to admit that I was astronomically late by 30 minutes because of my subpar subway navigation skills. I texted Adam to update him on my misfortunes, and he proved to be understanding. When I finally got there, Adam quickly supplied me with what he claimed to be the best Long Island Iced Tea, and we commenced a game of pool.
Once again, the chemistry we had discovered the night before resurfaced quickly. It was so easy to talk to this guy. He had told me about his adventures of the previous night, which entailed keeping company to a friend who had recently become de-engaged. I told him about my night… In fact, feeling completely at ease, and wanting to be honest, spontaneous, and adventurous, I actually told Adam about the whole mission, including my date with Tony the night before. I also told him about this blog. He asked me a bunch of questions about it, mostly about the motivation behind my writing. To that, I simply stated that it’s a creative outlet and a means to practice the art, and that my hope one day is to write a book.
We chatted some more, about his life and about mine. Proud of my earlier conquest at Macy’s, I also showed him the dress I had purchased. He was impressed, though stated that he’d have to see it on me, to get a better impression.
There were 2 questions that Adam asked me during our pool date that were way out of context. He asked:
- If you had to choose, would you choose Hawaii or Bora Bora? (rationale for this question wasn’t provided; I picked Bora Bora simply because my sister had worked there.)
- Are you a good actress?
That last one really threw me off. My brain went into overdrive trying to figure out why the heck he was asking me this. So, I answered: “I’m OK, I guess…” mentally alluding to the fact that I had partaken in some drama classes/clubs in high school, though I placed myself squarely into C-movie actress category, with a penchant for crying roles. When I questioned him about why he had asked me, he mysteriously, perhaps even mischievously, replied:
“Because when we leave here, you have to do everything I tell you. Are you OK with that?”
Uh-oh. So, you’re probably thinking, that’s kind of creepy. Yeah. It is (or was).
But, let’s look at the facts, that drove me to agree with him: a) I was in a public place (and had no intention of going anywhere private); b) my friends knew where I was/who I was with/and also had his contact information; and c) … if you know me, you’ll understand that I have this adventurous/mischievous streak that sometimes overrides any sense of reason, and inevitably gets me into trouble. Albeit, it’s usually the good kind of trouble; the kind that makes for good stories.
So, feeling empowered by the 2 very strong Long Island Iced Teas compliments of Adam, we left the bar, and headed to – what I presumed – was the chocolate shop.
Walking down the street towards our destination, Adam suddenly pulls me into a random store. As we walk in, I can tell right away that this is an upscale place, and my brain is frantically trying to assess the interior to figure out WHERE THE HECK WE ARE! Giving me not time to think, Adam strides over to the saleslady and introduces himself:
“Hello, my name is Adam, and this is my wife Helen. We just got married, and we’re going on our honeymoon in Bora Bora, and we’re looking for something nice.”
Just as he is saying that, I finally clue in to our whereabouts: a luxury lingerie shop. I’ve frequented my share of lingerie shops over the years to know this was high-end: the velvet draperies, the plush carpeting, mood lighting, and the elegantly clad sales staff all spoke to that. I was stunned, but luckily, I didn’t really have a chance to ask questions because my “role” as “Adam’s wife” had begun. (I could’ve refused, of course, but how often would I get the chance to do something so crazy fun?) So, I grabbed Adam’s hand, and intertwined my fingers with his, snuggled up real close to him – like I imagined a newlywed wife would – and bashfully listened.
The sales girl – Valerie – was cheery and engaging as she led us over to their “new collection” and showed us some examples. She then turned to me, and asked: “Would you like to try something on?” to which – after silently consulting with Adam – I replied with a demure “sure”.
As Valerie set off about putting things into the dressing room for me to try on later, Adam and I wondered about the store, looking at some of the other things on sale. It turns out that this place – Kiki de Montparnasse – is not strictly a lingerie store, but also a … as the website claims it… a store for “intimate toys and seduction tools”. If you’re thinking ‘holy crap’, rest assured at that moment, I was thinking the same. But, I was ‘acting’, so I stowed my shock and awe for later.
Valerie turned up a few minutes later to announce that the change room was ready, and off I went to try on my ‘wedding night lingerie’. The first thing I did when I entered the change room was glace at the price tag: $450.00 for a slip… that’s designed to be slipped off you in 10 seconds or less. My eyes popped out of my head. But, remembering that I had a part to play, I dawned on my expensive lingerie and proceeded to admire myself in the full length mirror. Being in that moment felt pretty darn awesome; I imagine it’s what Eve felt, when on the verge of enticing Adam to take a bite of the forbidden fruit: excitement and danger.
Picture this (actually, don’t… that would make you a perv): I’m standing in the middle of a circular dressing room, enclosed by thick velvet curtains, clad only in a sheer, butt-length slip, and underwear, as my ‘husband’ awaits my reemergence. Deciding whether or not to show myself off, I had a mental conversation with myself that went something like this:
“Should I show him, or not?” followed by: “Fuck it, Helen… Go big, or go home!”
With that, I peeked from within the drapes, and motioned Adam to come in. As soon as he entered, I assailed him with: “This is just your plot to see me naked, isn’t it? To which he replied: “It was your free will to invite me in. I didn’t ask you to do that. You decided that all on your own.” (This was in fact a valid claim, and also topical, since we had had an earlier discussion about free will.) My argument was invalidated.
In short, we ended making out in the dressing room at this lingerie store. Afterwards, I got dressed and left the change room to rejoin my ‘husband’. Informing a disappointed Valerie that we wouldn’t be making a purchase today, but promising to come back later in the week, we marrily strode out of the store.
I think I might have hit Adam afterwards, for making me go through that. However, I couldn’t deny that I had thoroughly enjoyed it. We headed to our next venue…
Luckily, it turned out to be a cupcake store, where Adam bought me a sampler of mini-cupcakes that turned out to be as delicious as they looked. Once these were polished off, we finally made way to our original destination: Vosges chocolate store. Here, Adam once again proved to be a generous giver as he bought me a $27 chocolate sampler. I sampled some of the chocolate in-store, and couldn’t wait to eat more! (My love for chocolate is conditional: I will not eat it unless it’s imported, expensive and exotic, and this chocolate definitely fit the bill.)
We then exited the store, and stood on a busy New York side-walk, contemplating what to do before my dinner reservations which were still 2 hours away. That’s when Adam reminded me that I had yet to show him the dress. And so – with reckless abandon – I turned to him and announced:
“Well, why don’t we grab a bottle of wine, and go back to my hotel room, and I will try on the dress for you.” followed by a precipitous… “BUT, no FUNNY BUSINESS!!!”
I had attempted to say that in a strict yet disarming voice. With remnants of the spiked iced tea still in my bloodstream, I think I only managed disarming. But truly – as I had mentioned earlier – I had no intention of sleeping with him. However, as a close friend once said: “It just so happens that intentions, even the firmest, are easily dissolved in alcoholIt just so happens that intentions, even the firmest, are easily dissolved in alcohol.” Nevertheless, I was determined to be good.
We grabbed a cab and headed to the liquor store that I had spotted earlier, where we purchased a bottle of white wine from a stressed-looking Asian lady. (Fun fact: they can actually open bottles of wine for you in NYC… in case you don’t have a bottle opener in your hotel room. ) With the pre-opened bottle, Adam followed me to the hotel. Once there, we had some wine and shared the chocolates purchased at Vosges. As promised, I tried on my dress for him and he agreed that it looked great on me. And, at 7:30, we parted ways, as I left to join my colleagues for supper.
Okay, Okay! That’s not ALL that happened in the hotel room. We did make out a lot, while Adele’s ‘21’ CD played in the background (Incidentally, this is probably my most romantic memory ever.)
Also, at one point, Adam kindly helped me take the dress off. And, there was some funny business. But I didn’t sleep with him… at least not in the classic definition of what that entails.
(P.S. My real name is not actually Helen.)
Bobbing for Adam’s Apple in the Big Apple – Part II
Before I go on, let me be clear: I was not looking to get laid in New York. All I really wanted (and I know that none of you will believe me), was to explore New York in an adventurous way, and maybe meet some cool people along the way. Back to the story...
At this point in the adventure, it was 11:45am and I had had a fruitful morning: I had a ticket to go see Mamma Mia! on Broadway, and... 2 dates lined up for the evening! Let me introduce to you, the lucky guys:
My first date was to be with Adam – a ‘startup consultant’ (whatever that means). Adam was 27 (my age) and 6’1”. His profile intrigued me (he claimed to be of Frech-Persian-Indian background) as did his initial message to me:
I just had to say ‘Hello’, otherwise I would have kicked myself later. Self inflicting pain is never fun
You not only have an interesting look but you seem like a fun & friendly person, which is rare to find in these parts. The typical lot on here are gunslingers or self-confessed alcoholics lol.
Let’s get to know each other...
Cheers,
Adam
Since I had told Adam that I was going to a Broadway show in the Theatre District at 8pm that evening, he thoughtfully recommended that we meet at 6pm at a Frech-Moroccan cafe called Marseille, located walking distance to the theatre. Over texts, it sounded like he knew what he was talking about, so I agreed to the suggested time and venue.
The second date of the night would be with Tony. After a bit of haggling over where to meet (he wanted to meet me by the hotel, and then go somewhere for a drink, whilst I kept insisting we meet at a particular venue… for obvious safety issues) he suggested a rooftop bar on 5th and 23rd. Our date was to be at 1am, because Tony was a chef and his shift didn’t end until 12:30am. It’s a good thing than in New York bars don’t close until 4am! Still, a date in NYC with some random from online is a dangerous endeavor, so I had other safety precautions planned which I’ll get into later.
Fast forward to 6pm, and I’m walking from my hotel to meet up with bar, dressed in chic white chiffon dress with a plunging v-neckline. In his profile, Adam claimed that he was 6’1” so I took a chance and wore heels. Adam got to the bar before me, and texted to let me know he was waiting (God bless men who are timely!) at the bar. I recognized him right away when I walked in, and settled into a bar stool next to his.
I will save you the details of 'he said, she said' and simply say that Adam and I really hit it off. It’s the kind of feeling that you wish you had after every date. We talked about everything and anything, yet somehow managing to avoid the formulaic date questions. Adam was good-looking, genuine and witty. My mission was off to a great start!
There are just 2 things that I’ll mention of our conversation, that are important for later on in the story. Adam recommended that I visit Vosges, a chocolate store in Soho that is owned by a Russian woman who imports & mixes exotic ingredients to make amazing chocolate. We also discovered we had a mutual appreciation for psychology, and he mentioned a lecture by a renowned English psychiatrist Raj Persaud (the lecture is: Psychology of Seduction) and offered to send me a link, which I eagerly accepted.
About half an hour before my show, Adam paid for my drinks and salad (a pleasant surprise since in Ottawa I’m hard-pressed to find a guy who’ll pay for my coffee) and walked me to my show. As we were walking, I mentioned that it was very pleasant to be in heels and still be eye level with someone, instead of towering over them. Then I had a mini-rant about how most guys in Ottawa were below the national average heigh of 5’8”. Adam nodded to acknowledge what I was saying, then pulled me in and kissed me. Twice.
Pleasantly taken aback, I mumbled a self-deprecating remark about how – if I known he was going to kiss me – I wouldn’t have ordered a blue-cheese salad for supper. To that, he tongue-in-cheekily replied that next time he’ll get me to stop at a drug store to get gum before he kisses me. Then he dropped me off at my show, wished me a good time, and departed. He followed up with a text after the show, but I didn’t pursue conversation as I was now anxiously looking forward to Date #2 with Tony. Although I couldn’t possibly imagine that it would go any better than the date with Adam.
Originally, Tony had suggested we meet at the 230 Fifth Rooftop Bar. I never actually had any intention of meeting some random dude at a bar alone in NYC. I had planned all along to convince my colleagues to go to that bar for the evening’s festivities, so they could ‘chaperone’ while I was dating Tony. However, my plan failed, when they instead ended up at a bar in Soho, and I joined them. When Tony texted at 11:30 to confirm our date, I took the opportunity to change venue. He was OK with it.
In awaiting his arrival, I prepped my colleagues of what was to come. Specifically, I asked that they stay at the bar until they were reassured that Tony wasn’t a creep. I also gave one of them is phone number. And, as a final precaution, I enabled my Google Latitude so others could see where I was at all times (although, having AGPS, that wasn’t a lot of help since at one point, I was seen in the middle of Hudson River). In any case, I felt ‘safe’ meeting up with Tony.
When he showed up (late), he seemed really nice. We grabbed a drink, sat down and got to talking. Tony seemed nice enough, but in contrast to my date with Adam, there were some awkward silences at times. The other awkward thing about Tony is how TOTALLY into me he was; to the point where I felt uncomfortable. This is probably because dudes in Ottawa are absolutely not forthcoming with how they feel about you and you have to pay cash to get a compliment, but luckily Tony made up for every guy I had ever gone on a date with, saying things like: “You are so beautiful; you look much better than in your pictures” and “I really like you. I would like to see you tomorrow” and (my personal favorite) “You should really move to New York”. As if.
So, doing my best to be non-committal, and laughing off his proposal to move to New York, I was busy mentally plotting my escape route. By 2:30am, about an hour into our date, I felt I had put in enough effort into Tony to justify leaving. To precipitate my departure, I told him that I had arranged to meet some friends at a club in the Meat Packing district and needed to be on my way (I didn't actually make that up; my friends were at a club and had suggested I meet up with them after my date was over). Clearly disappointed, Tony tried to talk me out of it, saying that he “really hoped that we could spend more time together”. I barely avoided rolling my eyes at him, whilst steadfastly repeating that I had to go. We hopped into a cab together, made out, and then he dropped me off at the bar. Resisting his pleas to join me at the bar, I said my goodbyes and went off.
My day's mission completed, I felt compeled to relax and have a good time. After all, I had another mission for next day: to convince Adam to go on a 2nd date with me. Fully commited to not thinking about that until the next day, I partied until the bars closed. At the end, there was another positive twist to the evening when my friend and I ended up getting a limo back to the hotel… for $30! But, we actually only paid $10 because we ended up sharing it with 2 guys who were headed in a completely opposite direction, so they picked up the rest of the tab. What a night!
Bobbing for Adam’s Apple in the Big Apple – Part I
This blog post is all about my shenanigans whilst on a weekend trip to the greatest city in the world: New York City (or as it’s colloquially known, the Big Apple. Hence the title). There are a few background facts you’ll want to know in order to adequately follow along:
First, if this post were a movie, it’d be rated PG-13.
Second, my New York City trip is an annual work event. For my job, I manage an internship program, and so every year in August, my interns (hereafter interchangeable referred to as ‘my students’ or ‘my colleagues’ or even ‘my friends’) head to New York for a conference. The conference itself is just north of the city, and takes place Sun-Tue. So, in order to enjoy a bit of the city, we fly down freakishly early on a Friday morning, and spend 2 full days gallivanting about the city. This year my 4th time in NYC, so I’ve done most of the touristy stuff; the only thing left to do, is GTFO of tourist traps and see how New Yorkers actually live.
Third, my colleagues all know about this blog and think it’s the most hilarious thing ever. At least that’s what they tell me. I’m egotistical enough to believe it. As an aside, I have this personal rule “never dip your pen into the company ink” (a.k.a. don’t date someone you work with) and I think I'll be sticking to it.
Still following? Good...
The trip to New York is the most exciting event of my summer because I absolutely love exploring the city. It’s so different from Ottawa, and I thrive on the excitement and adventure that NYC has to offer, 24/7. In prepping for this year’s trip, I was having beers with my dear friend R on the eve of departure (Thursday), abound with enthusiasm for my trip the next day. During our conversation, I might have said something along the lines “I’m going to get into so much trouble” with a mischevious sparkle in my eye. To clarify, by “getting trouble” I meant macking on some dude(s) at a club. However , R, being a guy, and a fellow online dater, immediately asked me if I was going to create a Plenty of Fish (PoF) profile for New York. I was astounded by – what at that time – seemed an absurd suggestion. I hadn’t considered that as a means to “macking”, and quite honestly thought that suggestion was ridiculous, and also dangerous. But, I knew that his suggestion wasn’t unusual as I’ve previously seen similar profiles on PoF and other sites. Even so, I disregarded R’s suggestions. For the time being. (Dundundun!)
So, freakishly early on Friday (I’m talking 4:30am here people!) I’m at the airport with my colleagues, waiting for our boarding announcement and discussing plans for New York. I cautiously tell them of R’s CRAZY suggestion. Ha! Well, they didn’t think it was so crazy at all. In fact, they thought it was a pretty good idea and one student actually said that she’d go on a double-date with me (even though she had a boyfriend).
Their enthusiasm and support really revved me, and I soon learned that I’m very easily peer-pressured into doing ridiculous things at unreasonable hours of the day. Within 5 minutes, I had a Dating profile up on PoF. My tagline was “Looking for some fun in NYC!” (Oh yes I did!) My profile read:
“Hi - I'm visiting NYC this week-end and thought that it's a great idea to discover the city by meeting new people! So, if you want to show me around and have some fun in the meanwhile, send me a message!
I am super fun to hang out with, outgoing and spontaneous.”
Then we boarded our flight for New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of.
Upon deplaning, my phone was already abuzz with all the messages coming in from New York men, all eager to meet me and show me about the city. I was PUMPED! Excitement soon turned to panic, as I became inundated with responses. I quickly realized that I'm gonna need a strategy for deciding whom to meet, and whom to weed (out). Luckily, this problem was soon solved, when one of my other students declared:
“Here is what you have to do… for the blog, of course. You need to go on 2 dates with 2 guys today. Then, eliminate 1 guy, and go on a 2nd date with the ‘winner’ tomorrow.”
MISSION ACCEPTED.
The Height of the Matter
(Sorry for the delay in between posts. In my defense, I studied and wrote the GMAT this summer, so I have a good excuse. I have, however, been sitting on this article for quite a bit of time. The next one is going to be very fun and will be posted VERY shortly!)
This article can be as short as “Women like tall men. Deal with it.” But if it were, then I’d be out of a job, so I’ll elaborate. As the title alludes, this post is all about height, or in this particular case, lack thereof, and men who lie about it. I mean, c’mon: do you really think we won’t be able to tell you’re 5’8” and not 6’3” like you said in your profile? What a way to start a relationship!
Before I launch into my story, let’s examine some facts: average height of a Canadian male is 5.8’’; average height of a Canadian female is 5’4”. There is no need to conduct a thorough demographics study to witness this trend in action in Ottawa: men here are short! That is a tall statement (pun intended) but, you must understand that my benchmark is my own height, which is 5’9”. And, I love to wear ridiculous heels, which oftentimes makes me – as my friends call it – a giant.
There’s probably a convoluted psychological explanation for why women prefer tall men. A Washington Post article I had read in researching this issue states that height is a ‘status’ symbol, which is – according to the evolutionary perspective – women look for in a potential mate.
Before you all you men go “you’re a typical woman, judging us men by our physical appearance, without giving us a chance”, give me the benefit of the doubt: I’ve tried – I really have – dating shorter men. I just can’t! I have nightmares that I might crush someone. I should probably see a shrink for that… Besides, when you guys stop judging us by the size/shape of our T&A, we’ll think twice about judging you by your height. Deal? (I have a male friend who says he only dates ‘ballerina type girls’. How’s that for judging a book by its cover?)
Now, let’s get to the juicy part of the story, which is my recent date with Josh. Josh messaged me on Lavalife, and he seemed very nice. His photos were …OK. I tend to place a lower emphasis on photos, providing they show some potential. Let’s face it, we are not all photogenic. I definitely am not; my sister got the entirety of that gene from our mother.
Josh’s profile was very witty. He was honest, a little arrogant, but COHERENT. A man who could string together a sentence without spelling mistakes whilst employing appropriate punctuation and capitalization! In any case, his “basics” were admirable: 28, 6’2”, employed, non-smoker, etc. As these things go, we exchanged a few messages before finally deciding to meet. I was pumped: I was going on a date with a tall guy. So, I permitted myself to wear my heels.
We decide to meet at a local gelato place. I got there first. As soon as he walked in, my heart sank. He didn’t have to come close for me to know that he wasn’t 6’2”. OK, he was like 5’11”, not a deal breaker by any means, but my disappointment was rooted in the fact that I was expecting someone who was 6’2” and had worn heels in expectation of it. So, I was disappointed, but that didn’t let me get in the way of wanting to have a good date, so I put on my happy face and proceeded to date Josh.
In honesty, he was a really nice person. We had a few things in common, and our differences made for good debates. As far as dates go, this was a good one. But, deep down, I knew that Josh wasn’t the guy for me. Based on things I had learned about him, I knew that this was not a guy who would ‘complement’ my personality/my life. I’ve gone on many-a-date to know what habits and characteristics to screen for. So, at the end of the date, even though we simply hugged and commented on a mutual good time, I knew that there would be no Date #2.
However, the fact that Josh had lied about his height, just made me uneasy, and so I proceeded to quiz all my friends – both male and female – what they thought of this situation. Most just said that there’s no way he could have made a mistake, and he was just probably a douche. I also asked an old male roommate – who is 5’6 (or 5’7 when he wears the shoes, as he likes to boast) – if he had ever considered lying about his height. His response shocked me. He replied: “Yup, considered it… but chose not to…because first face-to-face impressions are hard enough I don't want to poison it with immediate disappointment.” YES, I thought … that’s exactly what I had felt. I pressed on further, determined to get to the bottom of male psyche (as if!): “Ifyou had lied about your height, would you have actively pursued someone who is at your actual or slightly above your height, for the fear they will totally know the truth?” Him: “Definitely not.”
After some more probing, I decided to confront Josh, to understand why he lied (and also to make this story bloggable). So, a day or two later, I wrote him a polite e-mail stating that while I had a good time, I did not think we had enough in common to warrant a 2nd date. As a PS, I added:
I'm not sure how to do this in a societally-polite way, but are you aware that you're not actually 6' 2" like you say in your profile? A lot of guys don't really know their real height (c'mon, how many of you ever go to the doctor!) so I didn't know if it was your guesstimate, or if you deliberately fudged on that fact.
This is where it gets interesting, as Josh replied:
“I'm actually 5'11" and ¾” and so I round up to 6'0”. I entered 6'0 into my profile way back before metric became the Lavalife default. I distinctly remember seeing 6'0 in my profile. However I do not know my height in cm and so there must have been a conversion mix up and I just didn't notice. I do my very best to present an accurate profile of myself because the truth will come out soon enough. I am keenly aware that a man's height (among other things) is a huge factor in a woman's sexual attraction to him. The fact that you noticed this is proof that it is an important trait! I did not intentionally try to mislead you or anyone else for that matter. Thank you for pointing that out. I will correct it.”
Of interest to you readers, should be the fact that Lavalife allows you to enter your height in both metric and imperial measures. And, in fact, by default, the height is displayed in feet and inches, not in centimeters. In any case, to me that response seemed just odd enough to start to contrive conspiracy theories. However, I am naïve and decided that his mistake was as innocent as I am 
Although, a few days later, I went back to see if he had changed it, only to find that he had blocked me. Smart. But wait… I then asked a friend who had a Lavalife profile to check, and she confirmed that he had in fact corrected it to 6’0”.
In any case, the point of this article is – when it comes to online dating – fudging on facts like body shape, height, or age, is a BAD idea. But just because I said it, ain’t going to make it go away. In fact, a Communications Professor interviewed for that Washington Post article suggests that eliminating deception all together is a bad idea, and calls lying a ‘social lubricant’. I guess I won’t be dating YOU, Professor!
Here’s another funny story about someone who lied about his height: http://us99country.radio.com/2011/05/05/do-men-really-lie-about-their-height/
The Surge of the Supreme Suburbanite
I’ve recently, on two separate occasions, had the misfortune to come face-to-face with a new type of man: The Supreme Suburbanite. Before I get into trouble with my male readers, I’d like to disclaim that this title can (and does) also apply to women. The basic definition of a Supreme Suburbanite is: “a home body with tight schedule.” It is important to distinguish that not all Suburbanites are Supreme; but all Supreme Suburbanites are, in fact, Suburbanites. There also exist Supreme Downtowners, which I confess I am.
I further illustrate this concept of The Supreme Suburbanite (SS) in the typical fashion: with a story.
I began talking to Sam on OKCupid (new mating ground!) sometime in early March. I was instantly drawn to his online persona: he seemed funny, quirky, and light-hearted. So, I initiated contact. We exchanged lengthy and detailed e-mails over about 5 weeks, mainly due to the fact that I was on vacation in an area not consistently serviced by Internet for 2.5 of those weeks.
For those of you who’ve been following my blog since inception, you’ll know that I’m not normally a big fan of prolonging the online relationship, favoring instead exchanging the basics, and then taking it offline to see if there’s chemistry there. Sam wasn’t forthcoming with the invite to meet outside Internet, so I suggested it.
Up until that point, there were only few minor flags about Sam; flags that I was choosing to ignore because of their triviality and my friends’ insistence that these were ‘normal things.’ Like the fact that Sam expressed that he was content with his Government job, and would likely stay with the Government for the entirety of his career. (Apparently it’s not uncommon amongst my peers to want some sort of job security! What a strange concept!) And the fact that he was an introvert, and as such diametrically opposed to my extreme extroversion. However, these were not deemed deal breakers, and thus I suggested we meet up later on in the week, and quoted my availability to be on Wednesday and Thursday evenings.
This is when Sam chose to reveal himself as the Supreme Suburbanite that he was. His response to me was:
Him: “We'll have to work with our schedules a bit. I don't generally go out during the week because it means I have to drive back into the city (since I live in Orleans). So if we did meet during the week it would have to be super early like 3:30pm. I work really early hours, so I'm usually up at 5:00am (which means an early bedtime!) My preference would be on a weekend, maybe early afternoon on a Saturday?”
Before we get any further, if you’re not from Ottawa, substitute Orleans for another suburb that’s within a 15-min drive of the downtown core, and away we go!
When I read this message initially, I laughed and shook my head in dismay. I re-read his response a few times, to make sure I understood it properly. I mean, who do you know that’s available for a date at 3:30pm on a weekday? Granny?!?!
After thinking about it some more, I proceeded to informally poll my friends to see if I was being unnecessarily mean-spirited. I really wanted to be wrong about Sam.
Now, one friend of mine in particular (Male friend), usually berates me for making superficial judgments about people based on statements similar to these. In an attempt to give Sam the benefit of the doubt, I consulted Male friend about the above message, since – not only is he a …well … male – he also lives in this “Orleans”.
Male friend: Are you instantly drawn to him, with all other practicalities aside?
Me: I suppose yes. I wouldn't have messaged him otherwise.
Male friend: So what are you unsure about?
Me: I am unsure about this: <insert text above here>
***Pause***
Male friend: Does that schedule generally work for you?
Male friend: LOL.
I live in Orleans.
Like it's so far. K.
Case closed.
Don't reply. The end. Or like have one random extremely time-specific date and not continue
I live in Orleans. To say downtown is too far is fucking pathetic. Pass on this idiot. […]
…and complementary personalities are okay. But like: “I can only meet on Saturday mornings? That's already a stance. That just clashes with you. That's a practical stance I mean, versus just ideological.
Me: do you have anything else to add?
Male friend: don't know that there's much else to say. Clearly his life is closed off and he's content with being restrictive.
It is my opinion that there is nothing wrong with living the suburbs. In fact, if you’re tired for the constant drunken brawls at all hours of the day that go hand-in-hand with downtown living, then suburbs are in fact a great place to be. In addition, in Ottawa, it’s the only place people (couples, families) with a cumulative income below <$150K can afford to buy property. However, what’s not right is thinking ‘a downtown’ is like the Lost City of Atlantis. Inconceivable, and most certainly, cannot be traveled to, unless on a special discovery mission.
To make this worse, if this was an isolated incident, I wouldn’t have written about it. It just so happened, that I went on a date this past Saturday with someone else, who – first of all, was 10 minutes late because he didn’t know where downtown was; and second of all, didn’t even know what Bridgehead was (for out-of-townies, it’s a local coffee house chain, with multiple locations; some even within a 10 km radius of the downtown). And no, this guy didn’t just move to Ottawa.
Folks! This is why Google (Maps) exists!
Anyways, back to Sam. In the end, even though I really wanted to go on a date with him, and tell him face-to-face that he was close-minded, irrational, and quite frankly OLD, so I just didn’t want to waste his or my time. So, I replied with an honest:
“I'm not sure there's any point to it. It seems that we have opposite schedules…I've twice been in relationships with people who had a schedule completely opposite to mine, and it just doesn't work.
He thanked me for my honestly, wished me luck, and I’ve never heard from him again.
Letters from Across the Pond: “He took. It out.”
For those of you who didn't religiously watch Sienfield in the 90's, or were to young to 'get it', here's the clip which basically explains what happened on this date: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1Vm8VLj5dQ.
Yesterday, I get the following Facebook message from my friend:
"While on a date last night my date sent me a picture of his penis from the toilet.
I left before he got back. I thought you'd appreciate that little gem...
What would you have done?
P.S. I've declared a moratorium on dating for the rest of the month."
Like I said, they're not all Prince William over there either.
New blog feature: “Letters from Across the Pond”
Dear readers, howtobesingle here. You'll be happy to hear that I'm all but set for coming out of my dating retirement, and have a few juicy stories already lined up for you. However, in the next little while, I'd like to share with you a few dating stories from a female friend, who currently lives in the UK. She is quite active on the London dating scene and has been regaling me with dating stories that have made me laugh (a bit) and cry (mostly) for about two years. If you've been wondering "what's wrong with men/women in Canada?", then wonder no more you will. As she tells it, it's not all Prince William and Kate Middleton over there either. I'll post account of her most recent adventure in a short while. Then, you can expect sporadic "Letters from Across the Pond" posts going forward.
I’ve got a discretion policy. Just sign here, here and here…
I preface this story by admitting to you I’ve since given up my relationship with Mr. Jack Daniels. That bastard is of the “tall, dark, and deadly” type and always gets me into trouble.
The major issue with the locale I have chosen to acquire post-secondary education is that there isn’t much to do around here. Ergo, there is ample opportunity to drink and make an ass out of oneself (something I have perfected over my 23 years of life). So, this one night in particular – as is typical of many nights when you’re in college – we all decided that we were going to party is up. So we stocked our dorm room mini-fridges with whatever our student budgets could afford. (Side note: being a broke student SUCKS. Not the good kind of sucking either. I would totally do that to supplement my non-existent income if I didn’t have morals... and a phobia of anything that looks/sounds remotely anything like an STI. Anyways, back to the story…)
Luckily, my student budget included a mickey of JD (after all, it’s cheaper in large volumes) which went down the hatch pretty quick. Once the stocked booze had been drunk, we all headed out to do some dancing, and in search of more good times. As the night went on, the dancing got dirtier and I was getting closer and closer to legitimately dry leg humping with my friend Mark, who is the only semi-good looking (thanks, beer…err, whiskey… goggles) guy in the vicinity. The only downside to Mark is that he has a girlfriend. Or rather, it’s a downside only when the drinking starts getting the better of me. So, a drunk and a very horny me, was seriously wishing there was something that could be done about the situation on this particular occasion. So, I unceremoniously leaned over to whisper into his ear, and let him know that I’d like to do things to him that would make Jenna Jameson blush.
Apparently, Mark was a) not as drunk as me, and b) a good guy. After laughing it off and casually mentioning that his girlfriend would not be too pleased, I (to my present horror) let fly this line:
“It’s OK. I have a discretion policy.”
As soon as those words left my lips, I cringed, knowing that – when I was done speaking – I was heading straight home, where I would stick my head in a toilet and give myself a swirly for even thinking up the sentence, let alone uttering it.
Luckily, Mark knows of my sick and sometimes inappropriate sense of humour and was able to laugh it off with me. However, I was and remain mortified. Judge away dear readers, I definitely deserve it.
Please note: Mark definitely declined my offer (Yay for the good guys!); I definitely apologized for what I had said and definitely made it clear that I was NOT in the business of home wrecking... just the business of putting my foot in my mouth.
The Best Years of My Life (a.k.a Cougar Status)
I started college in September (yay!) and so far, it’s been like a rollercoaster ride. Right off the bat, I discovered that I am at least two years senior to most of the people in my program. A problem, you ask? Only on Mondays and Tuesdays, or whenever your idea of a “college week-end” starts (you know, the night of the week when you feel it’s OK to start drinking like it’s ‘normal peoples’ week-end again), and I start imbibing alcoholic beverages.
Truthfully, in reality I think that acting the “cougar” is the downfall of every respectable woman. However, what’s College (read: not reality) without a few poor choices accelerated by beer goggles?
Because, I am technically a freshman, I did the whole frosh week experience. Now, I know you fine readers are thinking back to that one week that you (maybe?) survived and are chuckling with a wise shake of your head. Don’t worry, that’s me too. But for the purpose of this post, let’s pretend that I didn’t already know better.
One of the activities ‘they’ planned for us was a boat cruise in Quebec (the majority of the students here are 18 so... yeah...), and I am not one to turn down a good time and a few people I had met, and was fast becoming friends with. So, I bought tickets to what I already thought was going to be a debaucherous event. I was anticipating a night filled with fun and alcohol, and I was eager to use it for all its worth. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have made that my plan.
In College, it’s not uncommon to get so inebriated that you ACTUALLY think your dancing gets better/sexier/more awesome with each downed drink. When not under the influence, this is widely accepted as a universal urban myth. While you may get a little bit less embarrassed by your awkward gyration, no one’s dancing realistically IMPROVES by doing shots. Hard alcohol is just not that magical. However, try telling that to your drunken mind. So, as the night wore on, and I was jumping, shaking and grooving it to the music, I notice a guy sitting at a table and ogling me. This – naturally – caused my jumping, shaking and grooving to progress. When he nodded at me to motion me over, I – not reluctantly – sashayed towards him. That was the first mistake.
“Damn girl, you can move.”
No joke. That is all it took. That was the second mistake.
You’re probably thinking: “how does anyone fall for a line like that?!” but, let’s face it: at the time, I was a) drunk and b) in need of a fixin’. And so, we danced for the rest of the night, sat side-by-side on the ride home and, like every great college romance, headed back to his dorm room, both of us relieved that his roommate was elsewhere. The he delivered another gem of a line:
“I’m sorry. I know I’m probably not as experienced as you. I’m only 18.”
Yes, my Cougar Status card had apparently been approved, as I was lying in a state of undress on the bed of an eighteen year old boy (That was, what? Mistake # 6 or 16?) I mean, congrats buddy! You took home an older more experienced woman! Slap on the back to you!
However, all I could think – as I lay there like a shamed stereotype – was “Oh God?! Where did my parents go wrong?! How did I end up here… NAKED and with the fresh face of a kid who had only been away from home for three days hovering over me?!” Ah yes, Jack Daniels, that sly old S.O.B. got me again. Well played, good sir. Well played. Apparently, it’s not just Tequila that makes my clothes fall off.
It was then that I decided that I couldn’t continue what was happening. I quickly excused my self and slunk back to my own room; which seems to be a recurring theme in my life. I thought these were supposed to be the best years of my life? Oh well, at least they’ll be the best years of an eighteen-year-old’s life.