Dating in New York

10:52pm, text message exchange with a friend.

Me: So, how was your date?
Friend: Fine. It was just fine. He's super nice. And cute. And brought us a bottle of red for the waiter to make sangria 'cause I said I like sangria. I just don't want him to take my dress off.
Me: That's OK, honey. He doesn't have to.
Friend: Yeah, I don't think I'm going to go out with him again.

Laundry list of amazing qualities. Perfection on paper. But we repeatedly find ourselves saying, "Ehh. I'd rather sit at home with my dog eating Greek yogurt while watching another episode of The Bachelor." I wish I had an answer. I do. But I can't help but think — it's no wonder that Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda were single well into their 30s. Then again, Carrie was neurotic, Samantha was a slut, Charlotte a prude and Miranda, well... poor Miranda.

NYC (otherwise known as Cougar Town)

It was a typical girls' night out with J and M: Cheese, chocolate and wine at The Melting Pot. Then J suggested heading to a nearby sports bar to catch the Florida football game. So we took it down a notch and headed to a spot that is notorious for hosting a crowd of barely-out-of-college yuppies and Jersey Shore meatheads. The upside? Affordable beer on tap and enough widescreen TVs to fill Giants stadium. Upon our arrival, a squat thirtysomething chats us up. I will call him Homeboy. Homeboy has been sitting on the same barstool for roughly six hours and is clearly incoherent. We indulge him while he regales us with tales of his dog (complete with photos!), that he affectionately refers to as "bitch."

Meanwhile, a group of five frat guys come in. Note that three of them are at least 6'5". I can't stop staring, for two reasons. 1. Tall Really Tall Guys generally don't travel in packs. 2. I was growing annoyed with Homeboy and was pretending to watch the game. The RTGs were blocking my view. RTG #1 sees me bobbing and weaving around his torso. We start chatting. I don't remember what we discussed, as he then began to high-five every female that walked past. I think he enjoyed watching the girls jump to slap his hand. Homeboy is now awkwardly standing up, as RTG #1 introduces himself. I think the RTGs think he is our friend. RTG #2 starts chatting to M and I. J is still politely feigning interest in whatever Homeboy is babbling about...

Subway Car Confessions

Reason #147 why there is no place like New York. After a fruitless afternoon of shopping, I found myself on a crowded subway car, homeward bound. Standing all straphanger-like, I was minding my own business while pretending to be enthralled by an above Budweiser advertisement, when I suddenly heard a raspy voice whisper, "Daayum. You have got the perfect body." I glanced down to see an attractive black girl licking her lips, staring at me. My jaw dropped, and I pointed to myself, mouthing, "Me?" I will never forget the 10 minutes that ensued for as long a I live: 

Girl: Mmhmmm. You got some cuuurves. (As she traced an invisible hourglass with her well manicured hands.) Mmhmm. You got a perfect body, girl.

It hadn't yet registered that this woman might have been hitting on me. Naive New Yorker that I am, I assumed she was simply very outgoing, friendly and appreciative of other women. Bear in mind that I had just tried on a pair of too-tight, too-low jeans and was not feeling very fond of the junk in my trunk, muffin top and all. So her compliments were more than welcome. I felt my face flush crimson, as I fumbled over my words.

Me: Wow. Stop! Thank you! That's very sweet of you to say. You honestly just made my day.
Girl: Ooh yeah, you like them meat and potatoes, girl. Your booty, mmhmm, I just wanna lay you down... you got a boyfriend?

It then occurred to me that she likes girls. Tugging on my sweater, I began to feel slightly uncomfortable, what with the way she was looking me up and down. It was as if I'd somehow walked onto the train, forgetting to wear pants.

Me: No, no boyfriend.
Girl: You got a girlfriend?
Me: No.
Girl: You want a girlfriend?
Me: No, thanks. I prefer boys.
Girl: Alright, that's cool. So where you from?
Me: Kansas City.
Girl: I knew it! I knew she ain't from around here. They don't grow 'em like that here. (Gesturing to a tall, slightly nerdy guy behind me.) See?? He be peepin' at you, girl! She from Kansas! Meat and potatoes! She be thick, mmhmm. I just wanna stick a chicken wing up her... look at her, she blushin'! I guess they don't have lesbians in Kansas!

At this point, people were starting to stare. The tall guy behind me seemed delighted to be dragged into this unexpected conversation. Slightly offended at the term thick and rather confused-slash-appalled about the chicken wing, I went into defense mode. 

Me: Yes, we do... one of my best friends back home likes girls. But I don't like that you called me thick.
Girl: Don't worry, you ain't fat, you perfect. I'mma take you to dinner. (Gesturing to a larger woman a foot away.) Now that one, she fat. But you, you're not fat.
Me: Shhh!!! Don't say that! She'll hear you...
Girl: She don't care. She know she big.
Me: But... but you'll hurt her feelings...
Girl: Eh, it's alright. See, I'm a renegade. Always causing drama. My fiancé is mad at me 'cause I got a girlfriend on the side. He don't like that. But I'm a renegade. So it's cool. I'm just honest.

Ignoring the fact that the attention of the entire car was on us, I found myself intrigued... 

Me: Yeah, I respect that. By the way, you have great hair.
Girl: Oh, this? Thanks, I just bought it yesterday! $150 a pack.
Me: Oooh, um... how many packs are in your head?
Girl: Three. I sewed 'em in myself. It's curly now, but I can straighten it, do whatever.

At this point, we were nearing my stop. It was time to say good-bye. 

Girl: I'll see you later. I won't forget you, Kansas.
Me: Oh, I won't forget you either...

Only in New York, kids. Only in New York.

The Jersey Shore (what you won't see on MTV)

Aside from my love for Chinatown street vendors and the cheap-but-high-quality manicures, there's only one thing that keeps me loyal to the East Coast: The Jersey Shore. And it's not the fist-pumping, mesh-shirt-wearing guidos in Belmar, mind you. Quite simply? The beach. Coming from Missouri where all you have is a grassy knoll near Blue Springs Lake, this excites me. Which brings me to... last weekend. 

Friday 
I pack up and head down with my friends Andy (above, right) and Steve (above, left) to Andy's shore house in Manasquan. We arrive only to immediately drop off our stuff and go out. Fun times. But nothing really worth blogging about. Ew. The fact that I just used "blog" as a verb officially makes me a tech-y Internet loser.

Saturday

Awake moderately early and walk to the beach. The local deli we stopped at for breakfast explains the summer-shore-house phenomenon perfectly. Along with bagels, coffee and assorted breakfast sandwiches, this deli had a few necessities for sale behind the checkout counter: Ping-pong balls labeled "Beer pong balls," tampons, a few decks of playing cards and an opened box of 40 condoms, which led me to believe they were selling the salami slings individually. Nothing else. No sunscreen for forgetful beach goers. Just balls, tampons, cards and condoms. But my bagel was delish. The beach was nice, too. I love that you can find seashells, something that lake beaches just can't duplicate, no matter how great the men make it. Anyway, after the beach, we got ready to head out to the one major club in Manasquan. Which leads me to The Story of Man Whore...

New Yorkers Are Sluts

It's true. The average American woman has had roughly six sexual partners. But the average female New Yorker? Twenty. 2-0. I'm not kidding. Why the large discrepancy? It could be any number of things:

• The Bible Belt. Perhaps they're waiting until marriage to do the deed.
• Marriage. When it comes to America, New York may as well be another country. Whereas most folks marry in their 20s, NYCers tend to tie the knot (if at all) in their 30s. More single time=more sexy time with more people.
• Stress. Though wonderful, New York is a stressful place to live. With 1.7 million people living within 23 square miles, it's a giant cement melting pot of conflicting, high-strung personalities. They alleviate that stress by going to the gym and getting it on.
• The volume of potential partners. You can hook up with someone in New York, and chances are, you will never see that person again. But you hook up with someone in rural America, and it's bound to be a poorly kept secret.

As for me? I'm not telling. I'm probably more your average American woman than New Yorker. But then again, I likely won't marry until I'm in my 30s.

A Single Chick's Apartment

I just came across an article that lists bachelorette "singlefiers"—or, rather, items one might find in a single chick's pad. My sheer curiosity transpired into mortification as I skimmed through the list. I'll put it this way — I had to scrape my jaw off the desk: 

Piles of magazines everywhere, comprised of tons of pretentious ones that are clearly untouched and then severely thumbed-through Vogues and Luckys. Oh, God. My New Yorkers remain in pristine condition, while my copies of Glamour and Cosmo are nearly ripped to shreds. This is 100 percent accurate.

Overflowing shoe rack and nothing in the fridge. My shoe rack is actually broken, there are so many shoes. Last time I counted, there were 40 pairs. That was a year ago. My fridge isn't exactly empty. There's some ketchup. And the essentials such as butter, expired milk and a Brita.

Scented candles. Check. Including a jumbo-size Warm Vanilla Sugar one from B&BW.

Slovenly heaps of little-used makeups in the bathroom. Not in the bathroom. On my dresser. I have one MAC shadow that I use religiously, and the others collect dust. I don't know why I insist on keeping eye shadow in every color of the rainbow, when I only wear the green one on St. Patrick's Day.

Stuffed animals on the bed. Not on the bed. On the couch. Three of them: 25th Anniversary Care Bear, Mr. Brown and a purple duck that quacks when you squeeze him.

Cat hair on the furniture. I brush Sophie three times a week, and she still sheds.

Cat smell. OK. That is something I am obsessive about. I refuse to have that Smell in my apartment. The other day, my neighbor even mentioned that my apartment no longer has the Cat Smell.

Cabinets full of mugs bearing the legend "I Love Shopping" or whatnot. None of those. Whew.

Anything pink. Hel-lo! I'm a CHICK!

Ornamental pillows. Check. Two of them.

Unedited bookshelves, esp. if they include He's Just Not That Into You. OMG. I'm caught. I have that book and Why Men Love Bitches. Thank goodness I ditched Dating For Dummies last year...now that would be embarrassing. But for the record, DFD was a joke left on my desk by a coworker three years ago. Yeah, so I brought it home... BUT I NEVER OPENED IT! Seriously.

Nair. OK, no. I've never used Nair. But my razors are pink... 

Anything lite or diet around. Cases of Diet Coke. Not cases. Just one case. And my tator tots in the freezer are NOT lite thankyouverymuch.

Inspirational or thinspirational things on the fridge. Is it bad that I instantly knew what this writer meant by "thinspirational"? It could be the wacky motivational poster I made of my stunning ex-college roommate. Or the "Get-Out-of-Exercising Excuses That Don't Work" article I have taped to the fridge. 

Framed posters. I don't have any framed posters, but why on earth is that a sin? How many dudes do you know with framed Motley Crue or Rolling Stones posters? On the other hand, I do have some framed photos I took from a vintage Vogue-inspired calendar...

Handbag tree. But it's not really a tree. It's more of a pile in the bottom of my closet. Next to the shoes.

I'm hopeless.

Sophie: 3, Me: 0

We all know that Sophie Sassypants hates my boyfriend and hides whenever he comes near. What you didn't know is that she peed on him two weeks ago. And it's getting worse by the day. For instance... 

Sunday morning, 11am

I wake up. Dan looks half dead and doesn't seem to be in a cuddling state of mind, so I go on a mission to find my cat. I check her usual hiding places and drag her out from under my bed. I rest her on my chest, with Daniel snoring beside me. She shivers and hides her face in my armpit, obviously annoyed to be within 20 feet of her worst nightmare, my boyfriend. He rolls over, and she runs to the other side of my apartment, all 300 square feet of it. I give up and leave to get coffee.

I come back to find Dan awake. "What's that smell?" he inquires. I lay down, so we're nose to nose, and I smell it, too. "It's poop," I conclude. Dan gets defensive. "I didn't poop! I didn't even fart, it wasn't me!" I crack up, obviously I didn't think Daniel shat his boxer briefs. I peek under the bed and drag Sophie out by her front paws. I've never seen a cat look so pissed in my life. "She's dripping!" Dan all but screams. "On your new bedspread!" Eww! I put her down and looked under the bed again. There is a huge puddle of piss and two neat piles of poop. I start shouting orders to Dan ("I need napkins, a towel, a trash bag!") and run my piss-soaked kitten to my bathroom. I wipe and comfort her, only to leave her cowering by her litter box — she knows HE is still around. It's all I can do not to vomit while mopping/cleaning the crappy plastic tile under my bed, pun intended.

Dan leaves, and I ponder Sophie's horrendous actions. This cat's not fucking around, she wants Dan out. I posted my dilemma on a cat-lover's message board, and get all sorts of opinions: "She's jealous." "Maybe she hates men." (Not true, she's fine with my dad and guy friends.) "She hates the way Dan smells." "Maybe you should trust your cat's instincts and dump your boyfriend."

Insane. So I've come to the conclusion to all but medicate Sophie. I made her a safe, private spot with a blanket and toys under my couch. I will have Dan leave out a cat treat every time he comes over, so maybe she'll start to associate "treats" with "Tina's boyfriend." I will make sure Dan and the cat do not make eye contact, as in my research I've found that cats see eye contact as a threat. And I will not pressure Sophie to love Daniel, as that causes stress on all parties involved. Finally, I pray my plan works.

My Big Day of Fun

So I had my first surgery. No big deal. Basically, I had to get this small lump-thing removed from my right boobie. But that's not what I want to tell you about. I want to tell you about one of the funnest experiences of my life. And you know what? At the end, I remember being sorry it was over. No wonder they say drugs are addictive...

On the surgery table. All I could think about and/or look at was the hot, dark-haired doctor. Despite the mask and blue scrubs, I knew he was hot.
Me: Wow, this is so weird! Ugh, I can't really..talk.
Assistant: Yeah
Me: What's this in my nose?
Hot Doctor: It's for oxygen.
Me: Cool. My nose itches.
Me: Wow. My nose really itches. Hey, I can kind of feel that.
Old Doctor: Let's give her more of the local...
A 1/2 hour must go by. I don't really remember what I was babbling about.
Me: My nose itches. Did you take it out yet?
Doctor: Yes.
Me: Well, can I see it? I want to see it.
Doctor: I showed it to you.
Me: No you didn't! I want to see it.
Doctor: Yes I did. You were asleep.
Me: No I wasn't! My eyes were open the whole time.
Old Doctor: You saw it.
Me: Well, can I ask you a question?
Doctor: No.
Me: Can I ask a question? What are you doing? Are you using stitches?
Hot Doctor: Yes.
Me: Well, did you take it out? Can I see it?
Doctor: I showed it to you.
Me: No you didn't! My nose itches. This is kinda fun. Are you stitching me up?
Assistant: Yes.
Me: I'm sorry. I'm being so annoying. I just wanted to see what it looked like!
Doctor: We don't have it anymore. It went to the lab.
Me: Well, I just wanted to see it! Am I OK?
Doctor: I'm 98% sure you're fine.
Me: When will I find out?
Doctor: In about a week.
Me: Well, thanks! My nose itches.
I get up. I get in the fun wheelchair. The assistant takes me up to the Graham Cracker and Apple Juice Room.

So I'm sitting in the big blue chair..dozing or something. I get four cups of apple juice and six crackers. A hot boy walks in and I decide I'd like to talk to him. He's on Anesthesia, too.
Nurse: Just walk slowly.
Boy: OK. This is weird.
Nurse: Just try to think about something else.
Boy: Yeah, like women.

The nurses laugh. I fantasize about going over there and giving that hot boy a lap dance. And we'd eat crackers and drink juice and eventually get married. Ha! And I can say... "Thank you for coming to the wedding. We met in the Graham Cracker and Apple Juice Room." But instead I sit and work on crocheting my winter scarf. Sweet Curtis comes and brings me flowers, and I buy him Italian dinner. And he listens..to my incessant chatter. Oh, and my fab roomie Courtney gave me pretty roses, too. I'm lucky to have lovely friends!

Now I'm tired, and my band-aid is...scary-looking. And I'm pissed because I have to wear my bra day and night for five days. Women! You know bras are fucking uncomfortable...especially in bed. Unlike SATC's Samantha, we don't wake up in our bras in the morning. F that.

SATC, New Jersey Style

Geeez. Where do I start?! So I'll just provide an update on Tina's Little Life, sans the witty banter b/c I've worked my ass off this week for the 9-year-olds.

1. Met a guy. Seriously. My life is the epitome of SATC. Except I can't afford Manolo Blahniks, I'm not that skinny, and my hair's not that 'fro-ey. His name is Dave, and he's New York lova #7. Ooh...7's a lucky number. Maybe that means something! I tend to be v. superstitious, and I believe horoscopes, even though I make them up. But this reminds me..a good entry would be one that focuses on all my New York lovas. Maybe I'll save that for my lunch break today. If you're lucky. ;) Anyway, Dave's great. There's something about this guy that's different than the other six New York lovas. He's a musician. (Yay! Although, he's not exactly starving, but that's good. And he plays classical bass, not Blink-182 bass, but it's cool.) He's currently a paralegal, he went to Brown (Ivy League! I'm outta my league here...), and he loves sports. What's more is that his ex-girlfriend was on that reality TV show, Dream Job, where students compete for an internship on ESPN's SportsCenter. And she took third place, the only female to get that far. I only hope that he likes his girls girlie and not sporty because...I definitely didn't know that baseball teams play the same team three times in a row. Apparently that's common knowledge? Did you guys know that? But whatever. I'm totally willing to learn about sports, I just can't carry on a conversation regarding A-Rod, unless it's involving his cute-factor. But I love watching games, and betting on them. (I'm a gambling fool. Just between us: I place my bets on team colors, mascots, and locale. I usually win.) OK, I've really got to get to work. I'll save other updates for later! xo!