Playing With Matches

Entries from March 2008

Third Date Rules

March 30, 2008 · 4 Comments

My friend J. says you should give every single guy you go out with three dates.

Who has that kind of time? 
But, I decided to try for a third date with Baltimore boy. I had been invited to a media/vip party that was from 3-5. Since most of my friends have real jobs, they have to work then. But, he always wants to meet around 3 or 3:30 because he likes to avoid traffic. (A good plan, since he falls asleep in traffic.)
The night before, he called and said he was definitely planning to come — he just had to move a meeting. I told him if he couldn’t move it, we could go out after.
I’ll call you at noon, tomorrow, he said.
The next day, I didn’t hear from him.
I went to the event — it was wonderful — with everything from cherry blossom sake to cherry blossom creme brulee.
When I was leaving, I gave him a call. (His meeting was around the corner.)
About four hours later, he left me a voice mail saying he was sorry, but he was “too self-involved” and “had too many issues” to call me sooner. He said he hoped murder wasn’t in my vocabulary.

 

Categories: boyz
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R.I.P. Mrs. K.

March 25, 2008 · Leave a Comment

A woman I grew up with is allergic to peanuts.

She went out to dinner with her husband. The restaurant used peanut oil (without telling her). She went into shock. She had her EpiPen with her. But it didn’t work.
She died last night.
I think that is such a bad reason to die.
R.I.P. Mrs. K.

Categories: Uncategorized
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Asleep at the Wheel

March 22, 2008 · 3 Comments

I went on a second date with the Jewish guy from last week’s 8-hour first date. At dinner, he kept wanting to talk more about his dad being molested. He kept going on and on and on about little boys being molested during bar mitzvah training.
I have three nephews. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to talk about pedophiles anymore.”
But he wouldn’t drop it. 
Maybe he should talk to a licensed professional, I told my brother. (I only took two psych classes in college.)
He probably already has, my brother said.
I sat there at dinner thinking about my parents — and how my dad rants on and on about things, and my mom just kind of tunes him out. (Mom is always half-tuned out which is why my conversations with her this weekend didn’t always make sense. For example, I asked if there was a Loehman’s. She said, “No, but we can pick some up.” (No we can’t. It’s a department store.) Or when I asked her which direction Marshall’s was, she said, “Sure.”) As I ate my Pho, I wondered if I could basically tune out for the next 40 or 50 years (since his grandmother is 90 and mine is 100 — we’ll probably both be around for a while.)
Maybe that article in the Atlantic was right. Maybe women are too picky. Maybe we need to settle. My brother’s always telling me that I’m too young to settle. But, I am getting older.
My date asked me if I’m ever sitting in traffic, and I fall asleep.
Uhm, no. That has never happened. 
He said he fell asleep several times on the way to my house.
Do you have narcolepsy? I asked. (Maybe I should drive next time.)
He was very sleepy. When he arrived at my house, he wanted to take a nap on my couch. That’s fine, I said. He can sleep, and I can go back into my office and work. But, he wanted me to cuddle on the couch while he napped. But, I wasn’t tired. 
I’m recharging, he said.
        He had power tools in the back of his car. He asked if I needed anything fixed.
That’s hot. But, I’m good right now. 
After dinner, we decided to watch a movie at my apartment. I had a lot more fun on our last date. But, I was drinking then.
I opened a bottle of wine.

 

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Mile High

March 20, 2008 · 4 Comments

My friend Jen e-mailed a group of us this morning to tell us about the boy she met on her flight. Another one of the girls said she met a great guy on a plane. They had a couple of drinks, talked, she gave him her number. But waiting at the gate with open arms was his wife.
I’ve met a few guys on flights.
1. Moshe — a hot Israeli guy I met on a flight to London.  (I noticed him because he had more luggage than I did — although he said one bag was filled with Captain Crunch and Lipton’s iced tea for his brother.) We ended up making out the entire flight. “Whatever happens,” he said, “this was the best plane ride of my entire life.” 
A couple years later, I saw him and his wife in Glamour magazine talking about how after unbuttoning the million billion buttons on her wedding dress, he was too tired to, uhm, consummate the marriage. 
2. Hans-Henrik — He sat behind me on my flight to Switzerland. When I found myself homeless Sept. 11th, he let me stay at his beautiful apartment in Zurich.
3. Jim — I was in DC for a job interview several years ago. On my return flight, he sat next to me. We had a couple gin and tonics, watched a movie, and kissed as the flight landed. We joked that United Airlines had set us up on a great blind date. He was going to be my boyfriend if I got the job… alas, I did not get the job. I still remember his e-mail. I wonder if he’s married.
4.  Peter — a very hot Jewish oncologist. (He was flying to Atlanta to attend the same conference my brother was going to). He had beautiful green eyes — and we dated for a couple of months (until he started asking out all my friends. I told him I really didn’t mind him dating other people — but I’d rather them not be my BFF’s.) 
Since he was a tall, handsome, Jewish doctor — my mom didn’t want me to break up with him.
Finally, on the phone with mom one day, I blurted out: “Mother, he wants me to lick his asshole.”
She responded, “Well, you make sure he reciprocates!”
Whenever I try to shock her, she always volleys right back.

 

Categories: boyz · mom stories
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Between The Lines

March 16, 2008 · 2 Comments

This afternoon,  I took my mom to the movies. We went to see Penelope. I thought it was great. I loved her watching men run from her and trying to believe that there really was one man who wouldn’t run away. (Totally loved the not-so-in-your-face parable about a girl cursed with a pig nose, and the curse would never ever be broken until one of her own kind accepted her and loved her as she was. Her parents tried to get her a nose job, but weirdly the carotid artery was in her nose, so cutting it would kill her. So, instead they made her stay locked in her house. Then one day, she found a guy who didn’t run after he saw her; she asked him to marry her — but he said no. So she agreed to marry  the next guy who asked her — her mother said it was her only chance at happiness — but she decided not to.  She had to venture out on her own, build her own life, stop hiding from the world and start doing the things she always wanted to do. Finally, she decided she was happy as she was, and poof, curse was broken. (Which is kind of the same, lame you-have-to-love-yourself-before-anyone-else-can-love-you self-help adage we’ve been hearing for centuries and centuries.)
Still, I loved it. 
Mom and I walked into the parking lot, and there was a police car blocking my Solara, and a big group of women gathered around my car.
“What’s wrong with my car? Did something happen?” I asked.
A big fat woman started screaming at me about my bad parking job. Admittedly, it was a very tight parking space. But I was parked inside the lines. (Actually, on the driver’s side, one tire was a little bit on the line — the woman complaining was parked on my passenger’s side — she was the one parked over the line).
The woman was, fat and she couldn’t get into her car. Instead of climbing in through the passenger door of her giant SUV — she decided to call the law.
Who does that?
I have never ever heard of someone calling the police to complain about a car that was parked within the lines.
But, in Johnson City, Tenn. where my parents live — the police are so bored, they will come out to a scene of a not-so-bad parking job. 
When we walked up, the women started yelling about my parking job. I told her I was very sorry, and I was happy to move the car so she could leave — but the police officer was blocking my car in. They turned to my mother and asked if she was in the car.  
Yes.
Did you get out of the car after the car was parked?
In truth, she had not. The space was tight, so I let mom out of the car before I parked.
But my mother immediately started lying to the police officer. “Yes,” she said. Of course she got out of the car once it was parked.
The police officer took my license, registration and insurance information. 
“Am I getting a ticket, officer?” I asked.
No, he said. But I have to write a report. 
Then he handed all my contact information to the other lady.
Why?
He told us that we needed to call our insurance companies and let them know that we had been involved in an accident.
WHAT?
I wasn’t involved in a car accident. I was sitting in a movie theater with my mother.
That’s when I was told that the woman claimed that when mom got out of the car, mom dinged the door of the SUV.
When, in truth, once the car was parked in the space — the passenger door was never ever opened, so it is impossible that my car caused the ding. But, since my mom can’t ever be honest — we have a police report with her telling the officer that she had gotten out of the car that was very tightly parked, and thereby most likely hit it.
I asked if we could do a C.O.P.S.-style reenactment, open the door (that had never been opened) to show that the ding couldn’t be from my car. (It just didn’t look like it would hit in the right spot.)
        No, the officer said. Then I’d have to write a different report. 

 

Categories: mom stories · reviews · travel
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Not-So-Secret

March 14, 2008 · 1 Comment

I went on an eight hour first date yesterday.
We met at 4, we were just going to have coffee, but we ended up walking around the town center. We walked through Williams Sonoma (we both love cooking), had a couple of beers, went for sushi, then we actually did get coffee, then we saw a movie. It was fun. I like him.
Although, I kinda feel like I might’ve learned too many family secrets for a first date. Such as:

* His dad was molested by a rabbi. (I don’t think that happens. He says it happens all the time. I’d really like to think that it doesn’t happen all the time. Especially as my father and uncle went to high school with his dad, and I didn’t ask if they went to the same Sunday school — because I just don’t want to know.)

* His 10-year-old twin sisters aren’t actually his biological sisters. “And nobody knows,” he says. (I have a feeling that a lot of people know since he told me after half a beer.) His mom remarried, her new husband didn’t have kids and really really wanted kids, she was 47, so she got a donor egg and gave birth to the girls. “They will never ever know,” he says. “No one is ever going to tell them.”  
It’s dangerous to tell me stuff like that, because let’s say I end up dating this guy. I’ll probably tell my brother. (He reads the blog.) And he might say something himself because he forgot it’s a secret (happens) — or he might tell my mom. And then my mom would tell my aunts and meet them at our wedding and say something like, “Wow, you’re right. The girls do kinda look like you even though you’re not actually related. Isn’t that remarkable? Isn’t science amazing?”
(Because my family is just not a family of secret keepers. As evidenced, by me just now blogging about it.)

 

Categories: first dates
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Happy Ending

March 12, 2008 · Leave a Comment

Everywhere I go, all anyone is talking about is the newest political sex scandal — and why his wife hasn’t killed him.
She definitely didn’t look happy standing by her man at the press conference. A woman I work with called me and said she was sorry, but she was going to gender bash. Men, she said, are disgusting. And the fact that he did it the day before Valentine’s Day made it even worse, she said. It made it so she understood why Lorena Bobbitt chopped it off.
Men are vile, and they like hiring whores, she said. 
I know, I said. 
I told her about a guy I dated who took me to dinner on my birthday last year. Across the street, was a kinda shady-neon sign offering a massage. He said he wanted to go get a happy ending massage. 
His birthday was in two weeks. You should get one for your birthday, I said.
I think I will, he replied.
I thought we were joking.
But, it turns out, he was serious. And since this guy uses lambskin condoms (yet didn’t know that they don’t protect against STD’s, because he apparently didn’t pay attention in 8th grade health class), I told him I’d really prefer it if while we were dating, he didn’t sleep with Japanese whores. Especially since I’m a hypochondriac, and he uses crappy, infective, married-people condoms.
Apparently, that was a deal breaker for him. I never saw him again.
It was too bad. When we met, I thought he was a nice, wholesome guy. He was a big brother for Big Brothers/Big Sisters — we met at the dog park where he was watching his little brother play soccer.

 

Categories: On TV · boyz · dump him
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Mini Burgers and Tequila

March 12, 2008 · Leave a Comment

Tonight, I was sitting at bar at Charlie Palmer’s eating mini-burgers and watching CNN when a guy walked up and asked if he could join me.
He said he’d been at a reception upstairs and they only had beer and wine — and he doesn’t drink beer and wine. So he had been drinking Coke and tequila. 
That sounds like Spring Break gone bad.
He had to get the taste out of his mouth, he said. So he ordered a scotch. (But weirdly poured Coke in it too.) 
He sat down and kept talking. He asked me what I did. I said I was a journalist. He said he thought about being a journalist. His sophomore year in college, he says,  the New York Times came to his school and offered him a full time writing job. But he turned it down.
I don’t believe him.
He does something that involves approving passports and Visas. He thinks he should write a book. 
He invited me to come upstairs to the reception. I was waiting for my friend Tracie to finish writing a memo and leave the office — so, I said sure. But when we got there, it was SO BORING.
I see why you left, I told him.
What?
I was thinking that he might be a nice guy to set up with one of my friends. He wanted to date me. He’s 50. And I know that some women will date sugar daddy’s. But I don’t want to. 
I told him I had to go.
He asked for my card. I didn’t have any on me.
Just give me yours, I said.
No, he said. I believe in détente. 
?
He asked for my cell phone number.
If I call you, you’ll have my number, I said.
There ARE no IFS in my life, he responded.
Okay, I said. Thanks for the mini-burgers. I shook his soft, girly hand and left.

 

Categories: boyz
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Bed Head

March 6, 2008 · 3 Comments

“I got a new hair product,” my friend D told me.
(She and I are both obsessed with our hair. We’re total product junkies — my bathroom has been compared to an alchemist’s lab. Last week, D. gave me the new Ouidad conditioner. And convinced me to buy a gallon of Deva curl’s AnGell. It’s great.)
What’d you get? I asked her.
Guess, she said.
Last week, she put castor oil in her hair. Apparently, she bought the wrong kind of castor oil, so her hair was breaking off in clumps and she was freaking out.
You’ll never guess, she said.
Is it mayonnaise? I asked.
No, she said?
Beer? I asked.
No, she said, but I’ve heard good things about beer.
Olive oil?
No, she said.
Mane and Tail, the product for horses that I used to use in high school?
No, she said.You’re never gonna guess.
Animal, vegetable, or mineral?
Silence.
Uhm, lubricant.
What? K.Y. or Wet?
K.Y. Warming, she said.
That’s disgusting.
My curls have never been so defined, she said.
How the hell did she think to do that? Was she making out with her boyfriend, and it got too messy, and she was about to take a shower, but caught her reflection in the mirror and thought, “Wait, my hair looks great.”
No, she said. I read about it on www.naturallycurly.com.
Eew.

Categories: curly girl · news you can use · product junkie
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Howling at the Moon

March 6, 2008 · Leave a Comment

“There are two kinds of people in the world,” he told me. “Those who like Barry Manilow — and those who don’t.”
I had a sinking feeling that I was talking to yet another fanilow.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I don’t.”
“Me neither,” he said. “There’s really nothing in between.”
This is a guy who I have been playing a half-hearted game of maybe-we-should-meet for about two years. I lived in Texas, he lived in Baltimore. He said he visited Texas. I said I visited Baltimore. But, we never connected. This summer, I called him to say that I live a lot closer to Baltimore, but he was out of the country. . .. The last I spoke to him was around Hanukkah time when he called to tell me about some hideous kidney surgery he was about to have, and about his dad’s rare lymphoma. (My dad once asked me if I was running a hospice since so many of my boyfriend’s mom’s had cancer.)
He called and said he was going snowboarding in Denver this weekend, but how about we meet next week?
Sure, I said.
“It will be a full moon,” he said.
“Is it?” I asked. “I don’t keep track.”
“I do,” he said.
“Are you a werewolf?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “This is going to sound weird, but my mom and my sisters….” 
Please, please, please don’t say it – I silently begged him in my head. Please say that they’re witches — or wicken or some weird moon-worshiping women.
But, he continued… telling me that whenever there’s a full moon, his mom and sisters are all menstruating.
Put a gun to my brothers’ heads and they would have no idea when I’ve got my period. (My very Catholic sister-in-law is always uncomfortable when Jewish women come up to her at Little League games and start talking about their cycle. But this is the first time a Jewish guy ever just started talking about it to me. Ick.)
I tried to change the subject. For some reason he started talking about incest. I told him I refused to continue that flowers-in-the-attic conversation.
There’s something about this guy’s JDate picture that I always found appealing. He says he doesn’t have any trouble meeting people — just he’s already met or been set up with everyone in his zip code. He wants to meet someone new. But, so far, no luck. He says he tries to tell himself to lower his expectations before every date. But often, he thinks that if the woman would just get up and go to the bathroom and never come back — that would be fine.
He did date a girl for four months — but she was psycho. She lived in Atlanta, and after four months, she wanted to quit her job and move to Baltimore. (I don’t necessarily find that psychotic — I did, however, find the nice Jewish guy on Millionaire Matchmaker last night who proposed on the FIRST DATE a little bit insane. And what was up with his eyebrows?)
This girl also photoshopped Baltimore boy’s head onto pictures of her ex boyfriends. He was looking through photo albums of her vacations, and was like, “Uhm, I didn’t go on this trip.”
(Didn’t that happen on The Office? Didn’t Michael photoshop himself into a picture of his girlfriend and her ex husband and kids skiing and make it his Christmas card?) 
She told him if he wanted to meet her parents, he had to give her a ring.
Honestly, no guy (other than my gay friend Brian in college) has met my parents. I think at this point, they might get a little too, jump-out-of-their-skin excited if I bring a random, nice Jewish boyfriend home. So, I can understand not wanting to meet parents before you’re serious.
He told her he wanted to take her on a trip first before he proposed. He says he loves traveling. He’s going to Belize soon. Then maybe Fiji. If we like each other, he invited me to go with him.
I do need a vacation.  

 

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