To Google or Not to Google? Or Much Ado About Nothing…

In the two months since I’ve last posted, a fair amount has happened. I kept waiting for that one good story that would make a good post, but then when I did, I was either exhausted or didn’t have internet at my apartment. So here are a few snippets of things that have happened in the last few months:

• I visited my parents in Atlanta. We did a bunch of touristy things, including visiting the Margaret Mitchell house, which launched my new obsession with Gone with the Wind. At one point I started speaking with a Southern accent, and “fiddle-dee-dee” became my new catch phrase. I’m fairly certain I’m past the phase, but every now and then I’ll bust out a “Darling” or “Honey” or “Sugar” in my best Scarlett impression.
• I went on two dates with a guy who lives in New York City. He seemed nice enough — dinner at an Italian restaurant for Date 1 and Batman at the IMax for Date 2. I debated putting up a full post about this, but then decided against it. The funniest part of this was that I Googled the guy between the first and second dates, so when I saw him the 2nd time, I already knew a bunch of information about him, but couldn’t let him know that. I realize the following may make me sound crazy, but the reason this didn’t get a whole post was that I didn’t find anything funny (or scary) when I googled him. He’s a pretty normal guy who’s a good writer and a sports nut…Nothing wrong with that in my book. That said, I wouldn’t recommend googling future dates. It’s too hard to pretend like you don’t already know about the person, and good luck trying to cover yourself when you slip up.
• I got a new job. I’m the new Text Marketing Manager at Yale University Press. I’m really excited, and so far I love it. I thought I could do the commute from New York City to New Haven, thus having the best of two worlds I love, but keeping my sanity and my good health means I’m moving to New Haven. I’m really sad about leaving New York City, but once I’m settled in my new apartment (which, by the way, has two bedrooms, and I love saying, “Come visit — You can stay in my spare bedroom”), I will be fine and very happy that my commute will be a 15 minute walk to work. Currently, when I don’t stay with my sister, my commute is 3 hours, and I’m out of my apartment in Queens at 5:30am. Not messing.
• I’ve been to two weddings, both of which were fabulous. There is nothing like love, a dance floor, and an open bar to bring people together. I caught the bouquet at the 2nd wedding. I know, I was shocked, too, and yes, I do realize the superstition behind it. That said, I don’t think my friends have to worry that I will be the next one to get married. There has to be a certain type of irony in the fact that the girl whose longest relationship in the last year consisted of the two dates previously mentioned was the one who caught the bouquet at the wedding of the girl who has been planning her nuptial celebrations since birth. When it came at me, I batted it down rather than catch it, so when I saw it on the floor, I had about a second to think, “Do I really want to pick that up?” And then I did, and I had my answer. When the, “So when are you getting married?” questions started coming my way, I found myself saying, “When I find him,” or “When he finds me,” or “When we find each other.” Looking back, my answers (somewhat induced by pinot grigio), weren’t that bad, especially the last one. You can’t plan for love; you just have to go with it when you find it (or it finds you).
• That’s all for now. I’ll be writing more about my adventures in my new city soon, as well as new adventures in my old city.

Um, actually, I went on a date.

It’s been a while since I’ve written, and I promise to blog about the highlights of the trip to Ireland eventually, but that’s going to have to wait for now.

I went on a date last week. I know – shocker. I mean, I was shocked when he called, so there you go. But I’m skipping ahead. We met at a bar in Queens the Friday before. Two of my friends and I were having a girls’ night out, and we were in the middle of catching up when this guy, call him Sam, comes over and says to us, “Hi. My friend and I have a question for you guys. What do you guys think of Fanny Packs?” Not knowing what to say, my friends and I burst into laughter at this awful, but successful, line.

“I think they’re the 2^nd worst thing to come out of the Eighties after shoulder pads,” I finally said, and the conversation went from there. He was friendly, good-looking, and able to keep up with the one-liners my friends and I were throwing at him. He and his friend stayed for a little while, but since it was his friend’s first time at the bar, they decided to take a lap and check out the place with the promise of coming back eventually. Ha. Like I actually believed that.

My friends and I must have had an invisible sign on our foreheads that said, “Creepers Please Join Us,” because the next thing I knew, a very large, much older, fairly hairy man was sitting next to me with his arm around me. It wasn’t just resting on my shoulder in a casual way (if you can call anything about this situation casual); he was holding onto my arm in a way that suddenly made me uncomfortable. I told him to take his arm off me and to back off, but apparently he didn’t speak English. So I tried a new tactic. I flipped my Claddagh Ring from my middle finger to my ring finger and turned it so the band was on the outside of my finger. I held it up to the guy and said, “Hey, take your arm off. I’m married.” This seemed to work for about a second, as he showed some semblance of understanding me, but then he put his arm around me again. And I told him to back off. Again. Thankfully one of my friends spoke some Spanish and managed to tell the guy to go away and never return for he was a creepy old man who should stop hitting on young women. Actually, I’m pretty sure she was a lot nicer about it, but that’s what I would have said had I paid more attention in my high school Spanish classes.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, we were no sooner rid of Creepy-Old-Man when two other guys tried their luck. I forget their entry line. I’m pretty sure it could have been as lame as, “Is this seat taken?” – a question to which the answer was so painfully obvious we had no choice but to indulge in conversation. Their names were Peter and Abe, and my first comment was, “How biblical.” Peter, the comedian of the pair (no really, he claimed he did amateur stand-up) said, “Well when we’re out together, my friends call me Moses.” I had nothing for that.

I think Peter claimed to be an actor, but I was instantly turned off when I went to say something and Peter, with his finger wagging, goes, “Oh no. Don’t interrupt me.” Out of pure spite, I continued talking. Luckily, I saw Sam walk by and gave a subtle wave. He just smiled and waved back as if he knew exactly what kind of situation my friends and I were in. When he walked back to the bar, I caught his eye and mouthed, “Help. Please.” Neither Peter nor Abe seemed to notice, but Sam said, “Only if you admit you like fanny packs.” Still trying to be subtle, I said, “Fine. I love them. Please help.” Sam came over and said, “Who would like to help me carry beer out to my friends?” and just like that we were free of the prophets.

My two friends went to the bathroom, and while they were there, Sam and I continued chatting. He asked me if I’d like to hang out again some time, and I said yes and gave him my number, fairly certain I’d never hear from my new friend again. The next day one of my other friends told me not to be so jaded when I admitted that I didn’t actually expect to hear from Sam, but the truth is, in New York it’s rare for a guy to actually call back. And let’s be honest: If I give a guy my number and my real name with the correct spelling, what are the odds they remember who I am or how to say it the next day?

With Sam, the odds were high. He called the following Monday (one day earlier than predicted), and we agreed to meet for drinks and snacks. We went to a cute place downtown that had outdoor seating, and sat and talked over three glasses of wine (for me) and three pints (for him). After we were done our drinks, I was craving ice cream, so we went to Cold Stone where we split (okay, I had most of it) a chocolate-ice-cream-with-Heath-Bar mix.

One would think that a mix of [three glasses of] good wine and chocolate ice cream would be enough to make this girl swoon, but here’s the thing. There was no spark. No butterflies. No vah-vah-voom (a description I heard on the latest edition of The Bachelorette. Don’t judge.). He was great – sweet, funny, really smart, talented, well-read, and not divorced, so he was already two steps ahead. But it just felt like I was hanging out with a friend, which is fine. It’s not the initial desired outcome when heading into a date, but at least he was a nice guy, something that’s almost as rare in this city as finding a guy who’ll call back. We’ve spoken once since the date (again, no VVV) and made no definite plans to see each other again. Looking back on the date and the phone call, though, I’m fairly certain that if I ever needed saving from a creeper again and Sam was at the bar, he’d gladly oblige.

Dr. Gina Barreca on Girl Students and Their Fear of Not Dating

In college, Gina Barreca was one of my favorite professors. Besides teaching me more in 3 years than most can teach in their entire careers, Gina is one of the funniest people I have ever met. In this video, Gina is delivering a speech at the NSA in 2007. She is talking about how her female students, no matter how smart, can all make themselves sound amazingly stupid.