1) Must be able to dress self. And I don't mean "dress nicely." I mean physically be able to put on pants.
2) Must keep clothes on in public. This is very important to me.
3) Must have an unusual name. Or a name that I cannot pronounce.
4) Must not have a job. Because there is nothing I like more than supporting a man. Apparently.
5) Must be decent looking. And by this I mean he isn't dead.
6) Must like to go sailing. And by this I mean drink.
7) Must be interested in things I say. And by this, I mean look in my general direction when I speak.
Mr. Wonderful fulfilled one of these criteria. I now have to go out of the country (for real) but when I return I will bring you the exciting conclusion of MR. WONDERUL IV: The Death of Mr. Wonderful. And my Dignity.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Mr. Wonderful III
Highlights:
1) When I told him we could not stay at the BBQ restaurant he had selected for our meeting spot because I could not have a conversation with him sitting in a meat-cloud.
2) When he told me "I swim, play football...pretty much every sport to keep in shape...my friend saw me without my shirt on and couldn't believe it," and then proceeded to stand up turn his back to me, TIGHTEN HIS LIGHT BLUE POLYESTER SHIRT AROUND HIS WAIST SO THAT HE COULD SHOW ME HIS…well muscled love handles??? I guess.
3) When he made sure to tell me that he had been out with a "female friend" the night before "VERY late."
4) When he said, right as the third glass of wine was kicking in, making him look somewhat do-able, "Okay, so I think we should end this here. I have to go meet some people." To which I replied "You are actually ridiculous. I'm out of here," at which point I said goodbye to everyone in the bar except for him, and stormed out onto the street. He followed me, calling my name. I stopped, turned, and said "Thank you so much for the drinks, Jersey, but I think we should end this here." And then I proceeded down the street.
5) When I received 5 text messages throughout the night from him starting with
“I think ure awesome” (9pm)
to “Come meet me.” (2am)
to “Where are you?” (2:30am)
to “U up?” (3:00am),
and finally “I am so horny for you right now.” (3:39pm).
Mr. Wonderful? Or MR RIGHT??!!
Stay tuned…
1) When I told him we could not stay at the BBQ restaurant he had selected for our meeting spot because I could not have a conversation with him sitting in a meat-cloud.
2) When he told me "I swim, play football...pretty much every sport to keep in shape...my friend saw me without my shirt on and couldn't believe it," and then proceeded to stand up turn his back to me, TIGHTEN HIS LIGHT BLUE POLYESTER SHIRT AROUND HIS WAIST SO THAT HE COULD SHOW ME HIS…well muscled love handles??? I guess.
3) When he made sure to tell me that he had been out with a "female friend" the night before "VERY late."
4) When he said, right as the third glass of wine was kicking in, making him look somewhat do-able, "Okay, so I think we should end this here. I have to go meet some people." To which I replied "You are actually ridiculous. I'm out of here," at which point I said goodbye to everyone in the bar except for him, and stormed out onto the street. He followed me, calling my name. I stopped, turned, and said "Thank you so much for the drinks, Jersey, but I think we should end this here." And then I proceeded down the street.
5) When I received 5 text messages throughout the night from him starting with
“I think ure awesome” (9pm)
to “Come meet me.” (2am)
to “Where are you?” (2:30am)
to “U up?” (3:00am),
and finally “I am so horny for you right now.” (3:39pm).
Mr. Wonderful? Or MR RIGHT??!!
Stay tuned…
Mr Wonderful II
Updates:
1) Mr. Wonderful is not very good looking at first, but after 3 glasses of wine he vastly improves.
2) However, not enough to distract from his high-pitched donkey bray.
3) Mr. Wonderful is from the great state of New Jersey
4) Which would explain the light blue polyester button-down he was proudly sporting.
5) Sadly, he could not cover up his polymonstrosity because despite the 40 degree weather, Mr. Wonderful “forgot” to wear a coat. Sidebar: I hate it when men do “quirky” things. It’s annoying and it comes off as idiotic. Be a man. Wear a fucking coat.
6) Mr. Wonderful is NOT in fact a zoo keeper, but actually works at a hedge fund. And no, I still do not understand what a hedge fund is, but for some reason I always picture a porcupine.
7) Mr. Wonderful likes to give himself compliments by telling you compliments that others have given to him. See number 2 in "highlights" for details.
8) Mr. Wonderful is 32.
9) I still do not know Mr. Wonderful's name.
1) Mr. Wonderful is not very good looking at first, but after 3 glasses of wine he vastly improves.
2) However, not enough to distract from his high-pitched donkey bray.
3) Mr. Wonderful is from the great state of New Jersey
4) Which would explain the light blue polyester button-down he was proudly sporting.
5) Sadly, he could not cover up his polymonstrosity because despite the 40 degree weather, Mr. Wonderful “forgot” to wear a coat. Sidebar: I hate it when men do “quirky” things. It’s annoying and it comes off as idiotic. Be a man. Wear a fucking coat.
6) Mr. Wonderful is NOT in fact a zoo keeper, but actually works at a hedge fund. And no, I still do not understand what a hedge fund is, but for some reason I always picture a porcupine.
7) Mr. Wonderful likes to give himself compliments by telling you compliments that others have given to him. See number 2 in "highlights" for details.
8) Mr. Wonderful is 32.
9) I still do not know Mr. Wonderful's name.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Mr. Wonderful
Let me take you back a few weeks. To a simpler time. A time where I could leave my house without having to febreeze first. George Bush was President, and I had yet to learn of how much money I had been losing having sex with men who were not the Governor of New York. I am such a sucker.
Anyway, there I was, at a quaint little pub named "Patrick’s Pub" somewhere in New York City. Number of bottles of wine consumed at this point: 1 and ½.
I was standing with my friends, delicately sipping (read: rapidly guzzling) crappy champagne out of one of the flutes that I hadn't yet broken. (2 in total to be exact). I wasn’t doing anything in particular to attract attention to myself other than demonstrating my skillful command of “The Egg Beater,” and then later “The Worm.” All of a sudden, perhaps mid-Cabbage Patch, I found myself face to face with David Lee Roth.
The face of David Lee Roth was plastered on a shirt.
The shirt was attached to a chest.
I looked up. There was a man attached to the chest.
Looking back, I might as well have been looking at an abstract meaning of vagina because I have no idea what that face looks like either.
Introducing Mr. Wonderful. MW from now on.
What we spoke of? Who's to know.
I seem to recall us having a pleasant time. Laughing. Drinking. Making fun of the Doogie Hauser Creep who was hanging around laughing and drinking with us.
Then things started to go wrong.
For some reason unknown to me, I was compelled to push MW’s tacky sweater that had been draped on top of a bar stool on to the ground. That was when the hilarity ceased. Doogie Hauser stopped laughing. Quiet filled our little corner.
MW’s face turned stony.
"Pick that up," he said to me, casually leaning against the bar, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Absolutely not," I replied, daring him to look me in the eye.
He did not turn.
"Please," his voice calm, "Pick up my sweater."
"Hell. No."
My friend, who was nearby, anxiously turned to me and pleaded,
"Cookieface. Pick up his sweater."
I classily replied,
"I ain't pickin up his fucking sweater."
This went back and forth for awhile. Key exclamations from me were “What’s he gonna do, beat me up?” (Probably) "What, is he in the mob?" (A valid question) and "I know people in the mob!" (Untrue).
Finally, much to my dismay, my friend picked up his sweater. Disappointed in her and in life, I decided the only answer would be to drink more.
(actually, 3 broken flutes in total).
One would assume that at this point, I would have had enough. This is not the case. I made nice with MW the only way I know how: Insulting him even more.
“Damn, boy, you sure are precious. ‘oooh! My sweaters on the ground!’”
He seemed to like this and laughed a little bit.
Encouraged, I added “You pussy.”
And with that, I turned around and began slobbering to the bartender, most likely about all of the champagne glasses I had managed to break in such a short time span.
Eventually, I leave, and am concluding my evening by staggering blindly into a cab and gesturing wildly in the general direction of Brooklyn.
That was when my phone beeped, an indication that I had a text message. I opened up my phone.
It was a message from "MrWonderful"
Apparently, while my back was turned, he had lifted my phone out of my purse, programmed his number into my phone, and then called his phone from my phone to get my number.
Apparently, I am also a prime target for a fucking pickpocket.
Of course, I found this charming, and after two weeks of texting, I finally agreed to meet him for a drink. All I knew about him was that he was a zookeeper.
Or so I thought…
Anyway, there I was, at a quaint little pub named "Patrick’s Pub" somewhere in New York City. Number of bottles of wine consumed at this point: 1 and ½.
I was standing with my friends, delicately sipping (read: rapidly guzzling) crappy champagne out of one of the flutes that I hadn't yet broken. (2 in total to be exact). I wasn’t doing anything in particular to attract attention to myself other than demonstrating my skillful command of “The Egg Beater,” and then later “The Worm.” All of a sudden, perhaps mid-Cabbage Patch, I found myself face to face with David Lee Roth.
The face of David Lee Roth was plastered on a shirt.
The shirt was attached to a chest.
I looked up. There was a man attached to the chest.
Looking back, I might as well have been looking at an abstract meaning of vagina because I have no idea what that face looks like either.
Introducing Mr. Wonderful. MW from now on.
What we spoke of? Who's to know.
I seem to recall us having a pleasant time. Laughing. Drinking. Making fun of the Doogie Hauser Creep who was hanging around laughing and drinking with us.
Then things started to go wrong.
For some reason unknown to me, I was compelled to push MW’s tacky sweater that had been draped on top of a bar stool on to the ground. That was when the hilarity ceased. Doogie Hauser stopped laughing. Quiet filled our little corner.
MW’s face turned stony.
"Pick that up," he said to me, casually leaning against the bar, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Absolutely not," I replied, daring him to look me in the eye.
He did not turn.
"Please," his voice calm, "Pick up my sweater."
"Hell. No."
My friend, who was nearby, anxiously turned to me and pleaded,
"Cookieface. Pick up his sweater."
I classily replied,
"I ain't pickin up his fucking sweater."
This went back and forth for awhile. Key exclamations from me were “What’s he gonna do, beat me up?” (Probably) "What, is he in the mob?" (A valid question) and "I know people in the mob!" (Untrue).
Finally, much to my dismay, my friend picked up his sweater. Disappointed in her and in life, I decided the only answer would be to drink more.
(actually, 3 broken flutes in total).
One would assume that at this point, I would have had enough. This is not the case. I made nice with MW the only way I know how: Insulting him even more.
“Damn, boy, you sure are precious. ‘oooh! My sweaters on the ground!’”
He seemed to like this and laughed a little bit.
Encouraged, I added “You pussy.”
And with that, I turned around and began slobbering to the bartender, most likely about all of the champagne glasses I had managed to break in such a short time span.
Eventually, I leave, and am concluding my evening by staggering blindly into a cab and gesturing wildly in the general direction of Brooklyn.
That was when my phone beeped, an indication that I had a text message. I opened up my phone.
It was a message from "MrWonderful"
Apparently, while my back was turned, he had lifted my phone out of my purse, programmed his number into my phone, and then called his phone from my phone to get my number.
Apparently, I am also a prime target for a fucking pickpocket.
Of course, I found this charming, and after two weeks of texting, I finally agreed to meet him for a drink. All I knew about him was that he was a zookeeper.
Or so I thought…
The 30 Steps to Drunken Dating
1) Admit that you have a problem.
2) Accept that there is nothing you can do about your problem.
3) Feel an overwhelming sense of freedom.
4) Celebrate sense of freedom with a glass of wine.
5) Have another glass of wine to celebrate wine’s freedom from the bottle.
6) Feel sorry for wine still in bottle.
7) Become a hero and liberate remaining wine. Viva la Vino!
8) Consider wardrobe choice for the evening---discover that it’s only 2pm.
9) Fall asleep. At your desk. At work. How awkward.
10) Wake up and walk out pretending like you didn’t just get drunk and fall asleep at your desk in the middle of the day. (This one rarely works unless the rest of your office is drunk. That almost never happens.)
11) Have a glass of wine to celebrate not getting fired.
12) See steps 5, 6, and 7.
13) Struggle into “date clothes.” I.E.: Whatever is lying on your floor that doesn’t have crust in the crotch.
14) Ride subway to meet “date” at pre-determined destination---most likely a bar with a name that has an apostrophe.
15) Pretend that you are sober.
16) Pretend that you didn’t just “miss the staircase.”
17) Pretend that you remember what your date looks like.
18) Ask questions about his life.
19) Pretend to care.
20) Feel a tap on your shoulder.
21) Turn around ready to throw down.
22) Realize your “date” has been waiting for you at the bar.
23) You have been talking to a lamp.
24) Order a whiskey.
25) See steps 18 and 19.
26) Stick your tongue down the throat of who you believe to be your date.
27) Finally begin to black out.
28) Get wildly offended by something your date says.
29) Storm out of bar. Wake up in your bed the next day without a clue as to how you got there.
2) Accept that there is nothing you can do about your problem.
3) Feel an overwhelming sense of freedom.
4) Celebrate sense of freedom with a glass of wine.
5) Have another glass of wine to celebrate wine’s freedom from the bottle.
6) Feel sorry for wine still in bottle.
7) Become a hero and liberate remaining wine. Viva la Vino!
8) Consider wardrobe choice for the evening---discover that it’s only 2pm.
9) Fall asleep. At your desk. At work. How awkward.
10) Wake up and walk out pretending like you didn’t just get drunk and fall asleep at your desk in the middle of the day. (This one rarely works unless the rest of your office is drunk. That almost never happens.)
11) Have a glass of wine to celebrate not getting fired.
12) See steps 5, 6, and 7.
13) Struggle into “date clothes.” I.E.: Whatever is lying on your floor that doesn’t have crust in the crotch.
14) Ride subway to meet “date” at pre-determined destination---most likely a bar with a name that has an apostrophe.
15) Pretend that you are sober.
16) Pretend that you didn’t just “miss the staircase.”
17) Pretend that you remember what your date looks like.
18) Ask questions about his life.
19) Pretend to care.
20) Feel a tap on your shoulder.
21) Turn around ready to throw down.
22) Realize your “date” has been waiting for you at the bar.
23) You have been talking to a lamp.
24) Order a whiskey.
25) See steps 18 and 19.
26) Stick your tongue down the throat of who you believe to be your date.
27) Finally begin to black out.
28) Get wildly offended by something your date says.
29) Storm out of bar. Wake up in your bed the next day without a clue as to how you got there.
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