Thursday, March 27, 2014

The Laws of Attraction

Part I: The Realization 

Attraction is not subjective. There are objective guidelines of what is sexy... or at the very least I know that waking up feeling bloated surrounded by empty beef jerky bags (yes PLURAL) is not considered remotely arousing.

My online dating profile lists me as "More Independent." This is in no small part due to my answer to this question:



Which, in turn, is in no small part due to my aforementioned morning routine. No one wants to wake up to that, not even me. 

Back when I lived in Spanish Harlem there was a 24-hour White Castle one block away from my apartment. On cold nights after walking 10 blocks from the bar I would guide myself home by its neon glow, like a North Star for lazy fat fucks. I remember announcing (read: slurring) with solemn pride, "I will have four double cheeseburgers and a large onion ring," and stumbling to the table to wait for my number to be called.

Order in hand, I stumbled home with glee, my mouth watering at the prospect of unhinging, and letting all those tiny burgers just fall inside me. It wasn’t until I reached my stoop that I remembered my roommate, and the shame sunk in. Luckily the apartment was set up in such a way that I could surreptitiously sneak into my bedroom, and in darkness devour my treasure with dimly glowing light of Netflix to guide the burgers to their resting place. Unluckily there had to be a "following morning..."

Upon awakening, my first unpleasant discovery would inevitably be my surroundings: evidence of the gluttonous debauchery. This would be followed by the immediate pounding in my head, and the rather unpleasant discovery that the smell of stale mini-burgers was not coming from the empty paper bag, but from me. It was seeping out through my pores! Needless to say, the feeling of bloat and disgust at having to clean up after myself dissipated with time and drink, and soon enough I would be skipping home yet again with another big satchel full of inevitable self-loathing.

 

Part II: The Comparison

Last year I got to go to my First New York Comic Con. Though I didn’t know what to expect, I was certain that I would be among people of my "attractiveness level." I was wrong. I began to realize the mistake I had made early on when I found out that a very attractive bartender friend of mine said he would be there, and going as Tony Stark. Upon arrival I wandered around the convention, doing my best to avoid staring at half-naked ladies in elf costumes slipping and sliding on a floor soaked by their admirers’ drool. I walked past throngs of people waiting in line to play five minutes of a video game that would be out in two months and a cornucopia of people selling products I could buy cheaper online. The entire experience was reminiscent of traveling back in time to the 90s, when malls were the place to go. Only instead of goths dressed as people who hate themselves, people were dressed as their favorite Shinichirō Watanabe character. 

As I navigated the convention center aimlessly I received a text from The Bartender, telling me to meet him in "Artist's Alley," a place for comic book artists to sign their work. Upon arrival I was greeted warmly and introduced to the rest of his friends, each one (objectively) more attractive than the last. I was then given the full nerd-treatment in the form of a tour of comic book art. 

"... and he penciled Ultimate Spiderman 27-52." I remember being told before finally coming to the realization that, "FUCK, not only are they devilishly good looking gentleman but they are geekier and smarter than me." 

Instantly crushing my feelings of self-loathing into a diamond of hunger pangs I suggested we get some food before carrying on. They agreed and the entourage of demigods and I, their troll servant, proceeded to get lunch where I could more accurately assess the situation. 

A description of their appearance: 
1.) The men were typically sporting a stylish V-neck that was not knit by their mother, and showed just enough of their chest to prove that the gentlemen were aware of the concept of exercise. 
2.) Their hair did not look like it had had a morning fight with two blenders and a feral cat. 
3.) Their pants were not frayed at the bottom, baggy, or covered in stains from various previous outings. 
4.) They had eye protection from the sun, not broken prescription glasses that tilted awkwardly and made you look like a mad scientist. 

Suddenly all I could hear in my head was that Sesame Street song:




I was that thing.

Despite my negativity they were nice to me. To this point, I doubt they even perceived these obvious differences in style and appearance. In fact, it wasn't until we got back to Comic Con after lunch that the stark comparison was visible to everyone.

As we entered the arena for round two, a group of ladies working the event (read: hired to make the geeks buy horrible products they couldn't possibly need) walked over to The Bartender. Apparently these women knew him from something. He quickly went down the row introducing all of the ladies, who smiled peevishly as each gentleman cordially nodded back, and then he got to me, "and this is..." before my name was even finished the expression on the women's faces instantly changed to one of confusion.


No doubt the only logical explanation to the scenario these ladies were being subjected to was that I was from Make a Wish, and spending time with these guys was my dying request.

 

Part III: The Acceptance 

Knowing one's limitations is important. I will never be the guy that turns heads at a bar, nor someone women sit next to in the hopes he notices them. I will never be the guy that they will flirt with across the room. I am not ugly, but I am "ugly adjacent.” I remember long nights spent at The Bartender's bar watching female after female approach him order a drink and say "You know who you look like?" followed by a list of attractive male celebrities:

Robert Downey Jr.
Dave Matthews
George Clooney
Orlando Bloom (when he had long hair)
A young Tom Selleck (during Movember)
etc.

It didn't matter that these celebrities looked nothing alike. They were all the definition of hotness, and he embodies it. In my case, the lady would undoubtedly turn to me and say... "Oh, and you look like that guy... from Dazed and Confused... you know, he gets his ass kicked?"


She meant Adam Goldberg
They always mean Adam Goldberg.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Buggin' Out



Last night, I survived my nightmare. After years of living in the city, two of them being completely alone, I came home from yoga to find I had a visitor. This is worse than anything I have ever experienced in my life. You might be thinking to yourself "oh no, someone broke into her place" and you know what? You'd be right. I walked into my kitchen and there was my burglar, crawling towards the sink, eyeing me menacingly. I screamed at the top of my lungs and he ran right behind the fridge...

Ladies and gentlemen, I had my first roach. It was horrible, that little effing monster threw off my entire night. I screamed, cried, gagged, and I hadn't even begun the dramatics. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a crippling fear of roaches, I can't even buy a can of raid because they put a photo of it right where your goddamn palm goes. What marketing genius thought of that? Frozen in place with fear, I grabbed the closest object, my fire extinguisher. I was literally about to smash every bit of glassware on my drying mat to get the little effer but thankfully I was able to come out of panic just long enough to recognize that I'd be breaking the only two good wine glasses I have left. Next, as a prisoner of my irrational fear, I went ahead and did what any chick would do - I called every man in my phone. I called and screamed bloody murder as if the roach were wielding a knife and sporting gang tattoos. Finally, the ONLY one who agreed to show up did.

Steve and I had gone to high school together but weren't exactly friends. We ran in different social circles and he was a bit on the shy side so our interaction was limited to “hellos” and “goodbyes.” He was one of those nice sweet guys who could never quite match my loud, boisterous personality. 

Fast forward ten years, I was newly single and reviewing my dating options via social media. I was already wary of Match and OKCupid, so when Steve Facebook messaged me —changing my Facebook status to single is apparently the internet equivalent of throwing chum in a shark tank—  I decided to just go for it.

Our dates went well I suppose, we went to the museum where I gave my opinions on 16th century baroque art and he gave his opinion on how overpriced the gift shop was. We went out to dinner and shared everything we ordered. Well, I shared everything he ordered and he started at my plate as if I was eating hard boiled worms. OK he kind of had the palate of a six year old. Fine, the dates weren't that good, but he was still really nice!

Back to last night. I had arrived home after an intense yoga session when roach-gate happened so by the time anyone was making their way to me, I was sweaty and had gross cry face. Not a hot look. Steve had finally arrived and went right to work, searching diligently as I cried and cowered like a psychopath (no really though... why am I single??) and then he did the strangest thing. He got super affectionate. Quick aside - he is in general a touchy, lovey, tactile person whereas I am not. Don't get me wrong, I love hugs! I hug all of my friends but he likes to make constant contact and it’s just too much. So now, there I was, an hour into my panic attack when he comes at me and picks me up like a child by my ARMPITS. It sounds weird doesn't it?

Actually, it was worse than it sounds. It was super humiliating and to get out of it, I did that toddler move where they make their bodies super rigid so that you can't get them into a high chair. I ended up falling on the ground and he had the audacity to look at me and ask "WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?" Um HELLO you are picking me up and tossing me around like a two year old while more pressing issues crawl around less than a foot away! Still I let the weirdness go, get my bearings, and accept that the roach is gone (though the are never EVER truly gone). We sat down and started to watch tv. However, the affection continued. He pulled me over to cuddle, but as he did he went for a cheap feel! I was disgusted! Seriously who does this guy think he is? We’ve barely begun dating and I didn’t give him any indication that I was looking for a hot late night hook up. I had mascara and eyeliner all over my face from yoga (crying) for Christ’s sake. I yell indignantly “OH HELL NO!” and asked him to leave.

Steve: "That wasn't even that bad!.... Wait, I didn't even do anything!... Wait, why are you even mad?... ok well don't worry, I'll never talk to you ever again.... I'll never bother you ever for the rest of our lives..."

Me (in a calm and collected but stern voice):"Get out."

The nerve! I mean, in spite of his many, MANY, drawbacks he came right over to help with the roach, no questions asked, and didn’t judge my perfectly rational and normal reaction to this life threatening event. Unfortunately, while I could forgive the narrow-mindedness and a future of chicken fingers and pasta with regular old tomato sauce, I could not forgive a guy putting the moves on when I am clearly not in the right frame of mind. I mean, he didn’t even get the damn roach! 

I guess it's back to online dating for me. 

Saturday, March 22, 2014

TMI Pickles

I once told a guy that I was late to our date because I had stopped at home to eat a pickle. I really liked that guy, and I really liked those pickles.

I've found that I have the most curious problem of over-sharing with the men in my life. I am completely unable to help myself when I suddenly feel compelled to share details about the giant bruise on my ass that is shaped exactly like Massachusetts (except upside down) but at the same time, I recoil in horror when the opportunity presents itself to express any genuine emotion or real honesty regarding my thoughts and feelings about our relationship. I generally get through these moments by recanting a salacious joke that involves a sailor, a gator, and a bottle of moonshine (I’ll tell it to you sometime).

Perhaps I’m trying to guard myself and my emotions with humor, perhaps I am afraid of any real genuine connection with another person, perhaps I happen to really like that joke; the world may never know (because psychiatrists are expensive). All self analysis aside though, let’s get back to that pickle.

I didn’t discover the joys of half-sour pickles until I moved up north (we don’t yet have this kind of technology in Florida!). Due to our lack of culture, I grew up thinking that all pickles were neon green, floppy, and tasting of a mix of sewer water and tide pool creatures [insert outrageous dick joke here!]. Then one day, while shopping at my local yuppie, family owned, farm to table specialty store (not an ounce of shame), I came across what looked like a quart container of fresh cucumbers floating in salt water and spices in the refrigerated section. Now, I get that this is essentially what pickles are, but to me it was a revelation!

With a mix of excitement and apprehension, I tore into the pickle package as soon as I got both feet into my kitchen. To my delight, these pickles were crunchy, garlicky, salty and just slightly tangy. They were perfect. I had another one the next morning as I was running out the door to work, they were still awesome, even for breakfast. The rest of my day was essentially spent calculating how many pickles I could eat at home before I had to leave to meet my date for margaritas that evening (and also wondering what a pickle margarita might be like).

As the day wore on though, my estimated pickle count went down by the hour. The work kept piling up and it finally became clear that I was going to have to rush straight from work to the restaurant to have any hope of making it to this date on time. That’s when I made a brash decision, the pickle was more important than the date. My house, was actually equidistant between the subway stop and the restaurant. I was going to make it work.*

When I finally arrived at the restaurant to meet my date, I started to mumble some excuse about the train being slow and, before I could help myself said, “actually, that’s not true. Between work and this restaurant, I stopped at my house to eat a pickle. It was a very good pickle and ultimately I think that it was worth it.” He however, did not seem to share my enthusiasm.

In the days to come, my date broke it off between us, citing the fact that he was not yet over his ex-girlfriend. I guess that she valued their relationship over preserved produce and I guess that I’m still looking for someone that understands the importance of a good pickle.

*As a quick side note: whenever I tell this story invariably someone says “oh, if you liked pickles so much, maybe you were pregnant.” No, idiot, I was not. While I’m on the subject though, I currently have a friend who is going into labor and posting it on Facebook. She keeps giving real time updates as to how dilated she is. That, is fucking disgusting and it is starting to become a trend. No one needs to know how gaping your soon to be floppy vagina is becoming. Gross.**

**The author does not view the beginning of a new life as a miracle. She views it as gross.

TMI Pickles

6 pickling cucumbers (the short ones that you find in spring)
4-5 cups of tap water (you want to cover the pickles completely)
¼ cup kosher salt
3 garlic cloves
1 tsp whole black peppercorns
½ tsp white mustard seeds
¼ tsp coriander seeds
2 sprigs of fresh dill

1) Wash cucumbers and place into a plastic quart container (they should fit very snugly).
2) Mix the (room temperature) water and salt together until the salt is fully dissolved.
3) While the salt is dissolving, peel and crush the garlic and add to the bowl with the cucumbers. Then add in the peppercorns, mustard, and coriander.
4) Pour the salt water over making sure to cover all cucumbers completely. They should be packed in tight enough not to float to the top.
5) Cover the top with plastic wrap secured with a rubber band and punch a few holes through it.
6) Store in a warm place away from direct sunlight (next to your stove perhaps) for three days. You should see some bubbles on the surface, this means that the pickles are fermenting. Depending on how sour you like them, you can ferment them for up to five days (they get more sour as the days go on).

7) Once they are done fermenting, store them in your refrigerator and enjoy on sandwiches, salads, or on their own before an awkward date.