Date 14- Rock Lobster

Despite the Chilean-induced hangover, I drag my carcass to the couch on Sunday morning, order cheesy scrambled eggs and french fries from the diner, and eventually run 7 miles because I am paranoid and afraid to gain weight. I have a date with the Tree tonight. He has been texting throughout the week, very cute perky nebbish texts and I am optimistic, if not entirely physically attracted to him. Being a man of manly habits, he sends an Uber to pick me up, which of course my girlfriends find to be impossibly gallant and romantic. Its a lovely touch, but I keep feeling like this is evidence of a habitual serial dater. I wear a blue menswear shirt (Marcello is obsessed with how I look in this shirt so I want to see if it works on other men....are they just imagining how I look wearing their shirt post coitus?), tight black jeans and black ballet slippers. I feel like Audrey Hepburn if she had been 60 lbs heavier with a bushy blonde weave. We have casual lobster rolls and beer at Red Hook Lobster Pound which doesn't strike me as a bona fide date spot, but the conversation plods along pleasantly. I wish alcohol wasn't always the key to success in dating but it sure helps.

We move on to a bar around the corner, where the conversations rolls a bit faster as the wine flows. His schtick remains but he loosens up a bit, and we discuss business, music, his vegan ex girlfriend. He pulls me into a feathery little butterfly kiss, and says he wants to book the next date immediately. I actually find him to be totally pleasant, and refreshing change from the last few men I have been out with. He explains to me that after the Vegan, he needed to take a few years to work on his career and not stress about the dating scene; I unfairly wonder why at the age of 40 this man isn't married yet.

DATE FOURTEEN- LOBSTER ROLLS DON'T MAKE UP FOR SPLINTERY PICNIC TABLES.

NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH- BEWARE OF 40 YEAR OLD TINDERFELLAS TRYING TO MAKE OUT ON CORNERS IN GREENPOINT.

MENTAL STATE- RUNDOWN. NEED TO GIVE UP MY HARD LIVIN' WAYS.

Date 13- A Latin Lover

Saturday night in the East Village, and the natives are restless. My tribe is having sushi and 2-for-1 bottles of Pinot Grigio, but there are hordes of New Yorkers in the streets, looking for adventure, cocktails, love, or all of the above. Saturday night brings with it endless possibilities to meet the right man, or possibly have a few thrilling hours with the wrong one.

After dinner, my posse and I retreat to Eileen's nearby apartment for more cocktails and chit chat. I tell everyone what has been happening in my life lately, relating the Marcello blow off in gruesome detail and the Vanilla Boredom. Marcello has texted throughout the week, with cryptic messages saying, "Still so sick!" but I ignore him and move on. Tonight he wants to see me, and despite that fact that I am wearing the most bewitching and painfully tight black dress with a deeply set lace vee, I know I can't. I am tipsy and will want to fight and talk about how devastated I was to be blown off, and I never win with him even in the best of circumstances; additionally I would like to be my loveliest self and I fear too much wine and sushi might have already set me over the edge. But I am restless and hungry; I want a handsome man to tell me I'm beautiful tonight. I call in a secret reinforcement plucked from my former life as a bartender at an upscale Italian restaurant, a handsome Chilean manager names Juan Carlos who salsa dances well and is almost as tall as I am...but not quite.

As a single girl, I find the Juan Carlos types to be useful in a pinch and incredibly liberating; he is an impossible match, which means I can text him when I feel like it and never worry about the games. He could never be a boyfriend because our worlds and long term goals are so different, but for a sip and twirl he is perfect. I sneak out of my friend's apartment, telling her I am heading home on the subway to be a good girl and get back to clean living ways. About two minutes after I walk out of her apartment, a taxi pulls up and a dark eyed South American beckons to me with a smile. I hop in and we head to the Lower East Side for Negronis. He talks about opening a restaurant in Queens and we both know he will never open this restaurant in Queens because he is a good looking man living for the good times. While this might be a debauched Saturday night for me, this is every night for him, as he loves the ladies. He confesses he has a 10 year old child, and from his tone I gather he isn't particularly thrilled about this. He plays the role I needed him to play, holds me close for a dance, tells me I am gorgeous in two languages and looks good. Our conversations are casual and open, because his opinion matters very little to me and I am not worried about impressing him; he says "You are incredibly sophisticated". I don't recall what prompted the comment, but thought to myself, "Yes, I am sophisticated as shit, and I gotta move on". And that's what I did.

DATE THIRTEEN- EL AMOR PROHIBIDO

COCKTAIL LIST- STRONG NEGRONIS AND HANDSOME MEN OF WEAK CHARACTER

PARTING GIFT- WICKED HEADACHE

Date 12- Playing House

Vanilla, in his broken state, throws himself a small birthday gathering at his friend's bar in the West Village. He casually invited me at our last date and I felt pressured to say yes, but as we near the date, I feel increasingly reluctant to a) spend time with him, and b) negotiate the tedious landscape of introductions to his friends. What will he say? I have already stepped on a few landmines with him, including his discovery that I "unmatched" with him on the Tinder app. A friend advised me that once you go on a date with a gentleman and they are in possession of your actual phone number, you should unmatch with them so you and your information (and updates as to how often your skanky self is trolling for dates) is invisible. I'm not sure Vanilla is as conniving as other people I know, and he seemed totally alarmed by it.

"I was trying to show your photos to a friend of mine but you disappeared. Did you delete Tinder?" he asks with a hopeful gleam in his eye.

"Uh, um, ah, well...my friend told me you are supposed to unmatch after the first date. Is that not what the kids are doing these days?" My weaseling was fairly obvious and I could tell he was disappointed.

Isn't dating a study in raised expectations and disappointments? One fantastic opening cocktail, which is always a surprise because Tinder forces you to walk in expecting the worst possible outcome, and you think to yourself, "I broke my unlucky streak! I met someone normal/interesting/not obviously homicidal! I might not die alone and miserable!" This is when it all goes downhill, because no one is as sweet and innocent as they seem, even people who are sweet and innocent.

I stay at work late on this Friday night, and tell Vanilla that I can't make birthday drinks, but I'm happy to have him over when he gets back to Park Slope. He mentioned the last time I saw him that he had a fantasy of me making him breakfast, which shows that he is a) deranged and begging for food poisoning, and b) desperately needs to get himself wifed up. I haven't seen a man in years that so obviously wanted an immediate girlfriend; poor fool shouldn't have gotten himself tangled in my web. I tell him that I will make him a birthday breakfast to make up for missing his cocktail hour, and he happily agrees.

This is the part of being in a relationship I love the most, so I will pretend briefly even if it is for the wrong man: shopping for groceries the night before, planning a little menu to impress, having a reason to pull out all the lovely little kitchen things I've been buying. I can practice on him, as I can't really get out of this birthday situation now without looking like an asshole to a man who is having a rough time. He comes over and I'm freshly showered, and try and put on a cheerful show. We kiss lightly, discuss work a bit, then get back into the never ending discussion of his family matters. My visceral attraction to him is fading quickly, and I'm having a difficult time pretending I have the remotest patience for his physical limitations.

In the morning, I wake up early and leisurely make breakfast: blueberry muffins, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, scrambled eggs with avocado and tomato, bacon. I ignore that I don't really want the man I am making breakfast for, and just enjoy this moment. I hope desperately in my heart it won't be long before I can do this for someone I am crazy about; I miss taking care of a man, even in my selfish and limited way. After we eat, I encourage him to get moving and pretend to have plans; its time to delete this man and move on to newer prospects. If I am honest with myself, I used him as a placebo for Marcello. I am not afraid of Vanilla because a man like this can be easily controlled, but I can't trust myself with Marcello, nor can I trust him.

DATE TWELVE- You snooze, you lose.

BRUNCH OFFERING- The freshest, if not the friskiest ingredients

VERDICT- UP THE FOOD CHAIN.

Date 11- Whine and Cheese

Vanilla and I have corresponded steadily throughout my dating hiatus, and make plans to reconnect. I am curious to see if there is really anything there- I am growing increasingly weary of his oversharing, and am concerned that the man simply might not have any fire to him. Been there, done that, and am avoiding burdensome toenail boyfriends like the plague.

Per his suggestion, we meet at a wine bar in our neighborhood and share a bottle of Albarino while we catch up. We discuss work, some interesting ideas he has had percolating for businesses, then settle deeply into a conversation about his fucked up family. As frequently happens in wealthy clans, the family discussion is inextricably tied to money. There are businesses, properties, accounts to be settled in the wake of his father's death, and much more to be discussed under the suspicious circumstances of his demise. Vanilla is dealing with police investigators, and seems consumed but strangely comfortable with his anger and bitterness. Dare I say, he is reveling in his fury, which is a concern as I am starting to detect a strange dark streak in this fellow. I could deal with grief more easily than I can deal with gleeful vengeance. He is after retribution, and plans to celebrate appropriately when it is achieved. My own family is less than perfect and I know that revenge won't heal wounds that have festered for years; they will never right the wrongs or give you back lost time. I feel badly for him, but after only 2 dates I am not yet in a position to be deeply involved or concerned yet and find the whole situation to be bizarre.

After we finish the bottle, we walk to his apartment to relax for a few minutes and continue the conversation. It is large, masculine, full of concert posters, computers, books and gadgets. While I prowl around, I find myself confused: although I am not particuarly attracted to this man, why is he not trying to bust some moves? He is a man, after all. I'm not sure I understand a man who doesn't go for the gold when its in an enclosed space with them, but I suppose he is saving me the inevitable trouble of turning him down. After another tepid 15 minutes of chit chat and pesky little butterfly kisses, I tell him I have an early day and have to run. He doesn't look particularly upset, which naturally really upsets me. His birthday is just a few days away so we make tentative plans to connect at some point to celebrate. As I walk back to my apartment, I contemplate the slightly tortured and broken man I left behind; I don't know what the future holds, but I am certain I don't want to be responsible for fixing him.

DATE ELEVEN- We put the FUN in dysfunctional.

APRES DINNER TREAT- E-cig laced with marijuana oil. Vanilla indulges in a bit of the

P-O-T on the R-E-G!

WINE PAIRING- A minerally Spanish white is the highlight of an otherwise tedious evening.

Date 10- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

After a really lovely 10 days with my parents, including a week of us sharing my little one bedroom apartment, they fly back to the West Coast. I miss them terribly and am sad to see them go; what is better than your father walking you to the subway, and your mother standing on a bench and waving when you return from work? The commuters thought she was bat shit crazy, but that is just how we are. They are funny, and they are mine.

I say goodbye to my crazy parents and return to my normal life. I have heavy thoughts pending- stresses at work, a reunion with the unpredictable Italian, and a half marathon hangover. Throughout my parents' visit, Marcello and I have stayed in touch. He sometimes gets nutty and calls over and over, occasionally goes silent. A perverse part of me was dying for him to meet my parents; the realistic part knows the apparent facts- 49! Divorced! Two teenaged kids in another state!- will never win my parents over. Then there are my own private observations I do not share with friends and rarely acknowledge to myself- his selfishness, his mean streak, his mockery of my running, his need to be the focus, his manipulative temperament. He isn't simple, and even if those marquee issues were resolved because Love Conquers All, I need to start thinking about things.

But not tonight. There are other men pending but he is the Hot Date, and the only one I want.

I sense something is off with him on this day though. He usually sends a "good morning, amore" text, some sort of communication, but today he is silent. I am wearing a beautiful cream linen shirt slit completely up the sides with a hint of floral bra exposed, skinny black jeans and metallic leather jacket, since I anticipate seeing him the minute I leave the office. As 4 pm rolls around, I start to panic and sense something is off. My coworkers encourage me to text him and see what is happening- I don't know him well, but this seems very uncharacteristic. At 6:30pm, as I have reached full meltdown status and am ready to leap off the balcony, he texts to say he is sick. He has been sick all day. Fever. Feels terrible. I push my chair back from my desk and drop my head in my hands; he is blowing me off. My woman's intuition screams it loud- fuck whatever he is saying because I don't believe it. FUCK HIM, he is lying and didn't even care to do it well. Something better came along, a surer bet that would take care of his needs, or maybe younger and prettier. Whoever it is, she trumped me. My coworker, who has become one of my dearest friends, is shocked and indignant on my behalf, as she has been forced to live through this play by play; she looks even more shocked when I start crying. It isn't him, it isn't Marcello...its THIS! This meaningless cycle of dates and drinks and "so do you like to travel?" and disposable people; it takes a toll after the initial thrill. I had a man, a decent man, who wanted to marry me, and here I am swimming with sharks and assholes. I am crying because I spent so many years without an electric connection that I can't fathom Marcello has options that thrill him equally. Is he that lucky? Does he find this kind of chemistry so readily that he tosses me aside? I am sick to my stomach, but try and play along with his texts. He never apologizes, never tries to reschedule, simply says he is very, very sick. Spin, spin, spin your bullshit all you want, but I know the truth in my bones.

This Tinder World makes salty dogs out of the best of us, so as I sensed the denouement coming (and my own mental state rapidly declining), I picked up texting with a fellow we shall heretofore call Tree. As other Tinderers have told me, you have to protect yourself and start rustling up other dates when shit hits the fan. A bit of back story: I was at a Super Bowl party (before I began my online journey to love) when a friend said she had recently been on a date with a fellow she thought I should meet, as it would be a better fit. I am open to anything and anyone right now, so I told her to go ahead and set it up. He texted me a few days later, with a generic hello followed by "So if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?" Naturally this stirred up much derision and discussion in my corner. Should I say cactus, because that is how I feel? Or does that give an unfriendly impression and indicate I don't shave my legs? Or should I say Redwood, because I'm quite tall? I settled on Palm- long, lean, Southern Californian. Anyhow, we texted intermittenly, with conversations and dates never culminating in an actual encounter. I had honestly forgotten about Tree when a Tinder gentleman started messaging me and admitted that he was sure we had already been introduced; he simultaneously started texting which nearly made me jump out of my skin. Tree had found me on the Tinder! Is no one safe?! We agreed that this is clearly destiny and we must meet. At long last schedules align, I get blown off by Marcello, and agree to meet spontaneously. 8pm in Williamsburg will be the scene of the crime (where he lives), and I pretend to conveniently be in the neighborhood with friends when in truth I am wandering the streets aimlessly, tortured and mentally masturbating about where everything went wrong with Marcello. I can't even focus on handbags in a vintage store, so wrapped up in my thoughts am I. In truth I could care less about meeting Tree; I simply can't be alone right now and all my key people are busy.

He picks a corner restaurant I have been to before, very Williamsburg with requisite exposed bulbs and rustic wiring. He is nice and smart, but I can't figure out why my friend was so sure we should meet. He has a schtick that I surmise has developed after years of online dating, which perhaps also explains the bizarre tree question. Is this what online dating does to a person? Turns them into Johnny Carson in a plaid shirt? But we carry on discussing food, wine, music, and he is charming if not particularly handsome. I mention that I sang at my friend's wedding and his eyes light up. He literally grabs me and turns me to face him saying, "Ok, now we really have to talk". At one point he launches into a feminist-leaning diatribe on "Girls", as he finds it to be insulting to young women and makes an impassioned plea for more dignified writing. Unfortunately I have had too much champagne on an empty stomach and need to go home to shame eat on my couch; I am sure Lena Dunham would want it that way. He insists on calling an Uber- "you'll learn this about me, I insist on getting my date an Uber home"- which makes me think he is the King of online dating with such ritualized habits. But I suppose I made a comeback tonight with a decent guy. Not an exciting, wild ride like I thought I was due to have...but a normalish, nice person. He texts that he wants to book the next date immediately, before the Uber even reaches my apartment. Its quite a comeback from crying at my messy desk, but I keep wondering...who is Marcello with tonight?

TENTH DATE- LIKE DESTINY'S CHILD PREACHED, IMA SURVIVOR

GARDEN VARIETY- I AM A BANANA TREE, BITCH

COCKTAIL VARIETY- REAL MEN DRINK PROSECCO

Date 9- Tool Belt

One of my dearest friends from San Diego is in town for the birth of her niece, so we make plans for baby admiring and dinner in my neighborhood. I remember when her sister was the baby- she seemed so much younger than us, and yet here she is holding her own child, in her two bedroom apartment with her adoring husband. My friend Sarah and I admit only to each other that no matter how happy you are for someone, there is a tightness in your chest when you wonder why some girls seem to get it right, and some of us might never get it at all. We go to Talde for delicious food and delicious conversation, and start the long process of catching each other up on life. As we chat and relax, the Italian keeps texting like a wild man. Finally I tell him where we are and say that he may join if he chooses. He is standing outside the restaurant within 5 minutes, so excited and enthusiastic he is practically leaping out of his skin. He wears a beautifully tailored shirt with the buttons undone just low enough to establish that he was not born in this country, and the most impeccably cut velvet jacket. He is gorgeous, and relaxes back to allow my friend and I to continue our conversation. I recognize that this set up is not what he had in mind- perhaps he thought the scene would be a bit sexier and more exciting, but he makes pleasant conversation as the evening progresses.

I kiss Sarah goodbye, and Marcello and I hop on the back of the Vespa and head to pick up wine before we head home. He stops by his apartment on an unknown errand. He keeps his helmet on, and emerges from the apartment holding a power drill and box of anchors for mounting paintings. After deciding that I need help to get my apartment more settled, this spicy, lively man in his perfect blazer is coming to my apartment tonight to hang antique mirrors, without my saying a word.

Back at the apartment, we open wine and begin the battle- me swatting his hands away, him trying to get his hands wherever I will permit. In moments his velvet jacket is on the ground, my silk blouse is in a heap with my jeans and heels, and its just warm bodies, soft skin and a few orange streaks from lingering spray tans.

"Che bella sei", how beautiful you are. He repeats this like a mantra, over and over and over, as he undresses me, unwrapping me like a present. His affection and adoration is so over the top, I will never believe him but could die trying. After a bit of rolling around, we get down to the business of hanging massive 45 lb mirrors that require both of us to position and lift. Wearing only his little black boxer briefs, he expertly measures, levels and mounts the mirrors. I play the role of his assistant wearing nothing but a light blue menswear shirt and wildly tousled hair. I catch our reflection in one of the newly hung mirrors and think we must be the most attractive partially dressed people in the world at this moment; he comes up behind me to pull me into a kiss. I can't think of anywhere in the world I would rather be than watching this man reorganize my apartment; the crazy wheels are turning and want him to reorganize my life towards an altar. Of his own accord, he moves through the apartment rearranging furniture, hanging shelves, sorting cords. He says, "Amore, this apartment needs a woman's touch", and I am incapable of being offended. He makes me laugh, and after the last few months of lugging Ikea boxes up the stairs, of hanging curtains, of spray painting thrift store furniture, he reminds me of the seductive beauty of having a man around to take care of a me. We have the uneaten tacos from our Saturday adventure sitting at my kitchen table in our underwear, chatting, discussing, arguing.

We sleep wrapped around each other, every nudge and movement arousing in him a chorus of "Che bella sei", aggressive kisses and seeking hands. He tries, tries, tries to get what he wants, but I can't have sex with him. I'm not sure why sex seems so much more intimate and major than what we have been doing, but its a line I'm not prepared to cross. I can't trust him. I know I can't. I wonder how his marriage of 20 years fell apart, and I think it must lie somewhere between his extreme self obsession, and this tremendous hurricane of energetic personality that must...MUST...get him a steady parade of women. I'm sure it always did; he has the bounce in his step and twinkle in his eye of a man who knows who he is and what he can get. He has spent 49 years successfully charming women; he could write a book on the topic. It doesn't matter that he isn't the most conventionally handsome man, because he has the most unconventionally exuberant and seductive personality. I am not the only one now, just as I'm sure his ex wife was never the only one. But being in his presence is like sitting in the sun; the warmth feels so good that it almost makes up for the darkness. Almost.

We barely sleep and I don't care at all. Today I will live on love, or lust, or my fantasies of whatever this might be. He takes me to the subway station on the back of the Vespa, and for 30 blocks I let this hopeful brain imagine that this is my real life- my dynamic, adoring boyfriend who makes life better and takes me to work on his scooter. I see Park Slopers rushing to the subway to head to work glance at us as we fly by, and I decide they are envious. The women want this good looking man who glances over his shoulder to laugh and talk and can't take his hand off his girl's leg; the men want a long legged younger woman pressing her chest against their back as they drive their motorcycle. I'm envious of that girl on the back of the Vespa too; she looks like her only concern is helmet hair and not losing a mule on the ride. My own concerns run a bit deeper. I wonder how a 10 day separation will affect my nascent relationship with a man who wants what he wants when he wants it, and wonder when I became the kind of girl who gives a shit about such an impossible situation.

NINTH DATE- MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL, WHO'S THE MOST DELUDED OF THEM ALL?

MENU DEL DIA- 2 DAY OLD TACOS WITH A SUBTLE, PIQUANT FLAVOR

TREND REPORT- UNDERWEAR AND POWER DRILLS ... CLASSIC COMBINATION.

Date 8- Stale Toast

Its Easter evening, and Vanilla insists on seeing me before I leave for a trip to Texas with my family. I will be fully off the internet dating radar for about 10 days, so I am tying up loose ends with current flings before I go. It seems that romances flame and fizzle quickly in this brave new world, so I am unsure what to expect of the current team of candidates. I am nesting at home, so invite him to come over and watch while I ready my apartment for a parental deluge. There isn't a bar in the neighborhood that I find quite so charming as my apartment, or offers as thoughtful and unique a wine selection.

He shows up at my door, orchid in one hand, air mattress in the other (my parents will be staying in my bed while they visit, I will happily be on the couch. I tried to dissuade him from bringing the mattress but he insists)- boyfriend applicant! He is 39 so perhaps that explains his behavior; he could be a one woman man looking for love in the worst possible place, and stumbled into me. Sober conversation is a bit stilted and dry, but we open a bottle of wine and sally forth. As the refreshing white wine flows, he starts talking about his complicated family issues, and reveals too much. Such a fine line in dating- you want to open up, share vulnerabilities and talk about what is important to you, but you can't reveal too much too soon. You can't seek a shoulder to cry on during the second date, and certainly can't discuss wanting to have your stepmother charged with your father's murder. He also seems to have a tremendous number of health issues- blood pressure, back pain, no end to this young man's woes. As I recognized the first night I met him, he is a sugar substitute for the poison I desperately want to ingest. I find the entire experience to be wholly unsatisfying, and wonder how long before I unintentionally kill the orchid.

DATE 8- SACCHERINE HANGOVER

FLAVOR PROFILE- Excessively floral, watery, with a tendency to overshare.

DATING TIP- A girl has to take your calls when you forcefully loan her an air mattress. SMART THINKING.

DATE 7- Moth to the Flame

After a tortured week of blocking his number then unblocking, then blocking and unblocking again, I reconnect with the Italian. I cancel plans with a girlfriend and agree to a Saturday night date. There is no logic to this any longer; I know I have already lost the battle and I don't care. I want to see him, want to talk to him, want to see if I'm truly crazy and embellishing this story in my mind, or is this really the most electric connection I've had in years.

My hair is tousled and curled, my eyelashes are freshly glued, my silk top is perfectly sheer ("Oh goodness, I didn't realize you could see my black lacey bra and creamy full breasts under this blouse!"). My look is on fleek, as the kids say, and I can feel it as I walk to meet him. He is stand-offish with me at first. I didn't behave the way he wanted this week, and I get the impression he isn't going to take anyone's shit. We head to Al Di La, where he knows everyone and I can safely assume has had relations with a few of these waitresses and patronesses. He glances furtively to look for any trouble spots before we sit down. He doesn't ask what I want, simply orders the best mussels, best Pecorino, the best rabbit for us to share. We both relax into the evening, and eventually I start talking about what I do for a living and he asks questions; we talk about my varied interests and he is fascinated. I watch his eyes light up as it dawns on him that I might actually have a career and know what I am talking about in some areas. Could that be a glimmer of respect I see in his eyes? We bounce ideas off each other and again I am struck by how knowledgeable and inspiring he is in some matters.

We hop into his tiny Fiat and head to a hipster bar in Gowanus. He is by far the oldest person in the room, and at 33 I am the second oldest. We order a $26 bottle of champagne and head out on to the patio to talk. Its freezing outside and we are alone with the exception of a few smokers, but we don't feel the cold. We talk, kiss, dance until the bottle is gone, and I am vaguely aware that 23 year olds are watching the strange grown ups slow dance outside in their expensive coats. And we are the grown ups.

I'm not alone on this branch, I see the look in his eyes and I know he feels this madness too. We have more chemistry than an MIT lab; I am NOT making this up in my sad little brain. Onward we march, gallivanting our way through the Slope until we decide the rabbit ain't cutting it. The only place I know that is open at this very late hour is my Mexican bakery, which is getting perilously close to my apartment. Although a swingin' bachelorette pad, the apartment is in woeful condition right now...boxes everywhere, a bag of dirty laundry holding the refrigerator door closed because something is broken and I cannot ascertain what, a general hurricane has taken over the apartment and it is not man ready for the only man I am actually interested in.

"Come on, amore, let's eat at your house."

"Oh God, no! Please! You'll never speak to me again, its a disaster! NO NO NO!"

"Amore, don't be pazza, do you know how many crazy apartments I have been in?"

"This is Olympic level messiness, you'll be disgusted!"

We take the bag of tacos and I drag myself up the stairs, certain that this will be the last time I see this man. I am taking an interior designer into a slob's pad. He walks in and is...charmed? He loves it, loves my art, loves the whole space. He walks around looking at the furniture, he fixes the fridge door, he wants to know where my strange objets d'art are from. He tries to buy my most favorite leather chair off of me, and I tell him he can have it as a wedding present. I keep pointing out all the flaws and he takes my hand and says "Amore, this is really good! You will make this beautiful! This is so great!" He looks for wine in the fridge and finds that, as with everything so far, we have the same taste and love dry whites from Campania. We sit around talking, laughing, and never even get to the tacos. I know we kissed endlessly, but I remember the hours of talking so much more. Perhaps this is the difference between men and women. I don't trust him at all, and I trust myself less, so I can't get biblical, but what is more intimate than waking up in each other's arms? When I move, he wakes and kisses me until I fall back asleep, twisted in his embrace.

The sun rises on Easter Sunday, and I wake with a complicated, tricky man in my bed. He would linger, but I can't. I can only fight off his advances for so long, and a new day beckons. I put on running clothes and force him down to the bakery where we get coffee and my favorite walnut pound cake. We sit on a stoop by his car, sharing cake and talking about my former boyfriend. As I walk away he shouts, "Amore, I love you!", which breaks my heart a little because its rubbing in how insignificant this is to him. I wish he said nothing at all so I could pretend that perhaps something real was germinating in his heart.

DATE SEVEN- FEELING LIKE A KINGS OF LEON SONG

WINE SELECTION- PERFECTION. HOMEGIRL KNOWS HOW TO SELECT A GOOD FUCKING WINE.

THOUGHTFUL OBSERVATION- AN ANKLET WORN ON THE RIGHT MAN IS LESS OFFENSIVE THAN AN ANKLET WORN ON THE WRONG MAN. BUT ITS STILL A QUESTIONABLE CHOICE.

Date 6- Looking for love in all the wrong places

It was a picture of him in cowboy boots with a hat that sold me on Vanilla, complete with full beard and warm smile. Since I left Texas I have always hoped I might come across a hybrid breed- urban shitkicker- but they are increasingly rare. More importantly this day in age, he gave great text.

As Thursday rolled around, I spontaneously had drinks with girlfriends in Williamsburg, sharing a bottle of rose on a patio (when will these dates get more fun than hanging out with my girlfriends? NEVER). He happens to be in the same neighborhood and confesses he might have had a few drinks with friends, so we agree to meet close by. If I could bottle that moment when a man sees you and can't hide his delight, I would be a millionaire. Maybe I would be the Millionaire Matchmaker, which would solve all my problems. He looked awestruck, whiplashed, happy as a pig in shit. The conversation was engaging- he is a Long Island rich kid who wishes he was Southern- and we discussed Willie Nelson, Austin, travel. He's nice enough, and I love my reflection in his eyes, so we head back to our neighborhood to continue the date. We gallivant among the dive bars (I am pretending to be easy going until these guys fall madly in lust with me. Then I'll whip it out and reveal what a pain in the ass I am) and in drunken curiousity wander into the famous Grand Prospect Hall. This place is a legend, the scene of many an outer borough wedding and/or baptism, gilded everything and the purveyor of the Best Worst Commercial You Have Ever Seen ("Grand Prospect Hall, where all your dreams come true!"). My 39 year old date and I are acting like naughty kids, trying to scope out the scene and crash a couple corporate events that are winding down. We wander into a dark unused ballroom and he grabs me and kisses me. I let him because I have thrown strategy out the window this week. I just want to lay my head on a big man's chest in my big bed. We finally end up at my apartment on the couch. I am breaking every rule that could be broken for a man I am only lightly attracted to, but my ego took a beating with the Italian, and this new apartment of mine is begging to be seen, torturing me to show her off. After 10 years of living in a shared shoebox in Hell's Kitchen (including 5 years in a really seductive twin bed), I finally have an enormous apartment to myself and its glorious. Its a man magnet in my opinion- arty, airy, sexy. (I hope.)

He sees two air conditioners sitting in my kitchen, yet to be installed, and says, "I bet I'm going to be putting those in windows for you soon." Sweet, but I could care less. He's not the one I really want anyways, but for tonight he will do. There are times in this dating adventure when I don't recognize myself, can't figure out where decisions came from. But I end up with my head on a manly chest, his blue eyes watching me as the sun comes up in my little Brooklyn apartment.

SIXTH DATE- A SOFT PLACE TO LAND

LATE NIGHT NIBBLES- THE 2AM CHEESEBURGER MIGHT NOT BE THE BIGGEST REGRET I HAVE IN THE MORNING

WINE SELECTION- WENT DOWNHILL AFTER THE ROSE

Life Before The Tinder- Happy Trails

November 2014

Greenpoint is not his scene. He would never pick such a restaurant- shabby, stylish, the size of a postage stamp- and yet there he was, sitting across from a pretty girl in her late 20s. I broke up with Aris after spending 4 years trying to build a life together, trying to will him into being someone he won't be, and trying to convince myself that this particular brand of love would be enough. The day before my 33rd birthday I told him we needed to move on, start fresh, find what we both need out of life. This would never be enough for me, even if I could never quite articulate why. My friends and family were very pleased with this decision; although I understand a person has to make her own choices, I am fascinated by outsiders' cool perspectives. They can see with clear eyes what I will never acknowledge, the worst of which was that it was very apparent that Aris didn't love me enough. When my father told me this I wept, probably more because of my wounded ego, and not nearly enough because my love for him was unmatched.

I told friends that I would take 6 months to be alone, ostensibly to "work on me" and "figure out what I want". The truth was that I couldn't imagine looking a man in the eye, couldn't fathom how a man could find me attractive. I cast myself back out to sea without floaties, fatter than I had ever been, less confident, wobbling in each step. I started a new job, which was a life raft and gave me a focus. I ran constantly; I didn't know if I was running away or running towards but I ran because I needed to go somewhere, and give all the voices in my head the air they required. I relished sleeping alone and setting my own schedule. I lived how I wanted to live, booked as many plays, saw as many friends, woke up hungover with half eaten BLTS. Life became my own again.

So we return to the scene as it were....a romantically lit hipster restaurant in Greenpoint, with two of my best friends, impatiently waiting for a table and knocking back white wine with vigor. I see the bartender decant a red wine and can't help but ask what the wine is; I'm a bartender at heart. He says its not a great wine, but a young wine and they had nothing better to do than decant. We are finally seated, the three of us laughing loudly, talking shit as we are wont to do, shaking out our hair and coats and hats. I look around at our neighbors and quickly recognize the awful sweater, the humped back posture, then finally the man. Aris is sitting 4 feet away from me on a date. He is the orderer of said decanted wine, he is having a romantic dinner with a woman who is younger than me, he seems to be doing A-OK three months to the day after being dumped. None of us acknowledge each others' presence, as it would seem the window for such an introduction had passed. While my table nervously titters, imbibes heavily and does their best to avoid eye contact, he continues with his date, the girl blissfully unaware that strange shit is going down. Finally he pays, they leave and we breathe. As my Irish best friend smokes a fag she says, "Chicken, I'm pretty sure that when he gets home tonight and checks his panties, there is a little trail of shit there because he DEFINITELY shit his pants when you walked in."

I felt wrecked. I didn't miss him, I didn't want to wake up with him, I truly wanted nothing to do with him. But I failed to understand how he felt well enough to date, to boldly put himself out on the market as a complete package. I tried to explain to my friends that it had nothing to do with him, not even jealousy. The only way I could describe myself was "broken"; something had happened to me and I felt worthless for a man. I couldn't understand what a man would be attracted to, couldn't figure out what he might love and want. I never thought of myself as a sad case, but something had changed and corroded my value. The wrong love, the kind of love that is lesser, is like pouring acid down a pipe. You don't necessarily know what the damage is, but you know it did something terrible on the way down. I settled for an imitation of love and affection for so long that my heart was broken and it took my self worth down with the ship.

Date 5- Atonal and slightly hormonal

The Blogger and I had been texting for a few days when we spontaneously decided to have a drink together. We met at a dive bar in our neighborhood for two beers. It wasn't a particularly memorable evening; it reminded me that just because someone is nice and interesting doesn't mean they are right for you, and certainly doesn't mean you have chemistry. But as with so many people in the diverse city, he had particular and interesting tastes, travels frequently for music festivals specializing in atonal, discordant music ("No salsa? No bluegrass?") to write about in his blog. This wouldn't have been a fiery love match under the best of circumstances, but I had hurriedly patched the date together because of strange doings with the Italian. A bit of background: after Friday's peculiar date I had been unsure of how to move forward with the Italian. I woke up to a flurry of text messages asking if he could pick me up so we could have an adventure on his Vespa, go to dinner, etc. I declined, because I'm a Rules Girl AND I've got shit to do. I survived quite well without this man in my life, I can't drop everything to hop on the back of his scooter (or could I?). Late Saturday he sent an emotional "I like you so much" text, undoubtedly a few drinks in, then Sunday morning early sent his morning love text. I had an intensely busy Sunday morning of racing in Central Park and furniture moving, and neglected to reply in a timely manner. At 2pm, he texts "You think I'm a piece of shit, why didn't you just tell me? You don't care about me." I write back to him that I am sorry, I've been very busy but I adore him. I don't hear from him for the rest of the day...my crazy wheels are on overdrive. I've been listening to love songs all weekend and cleaning and painting furniture; I want a MAN in my home. WHy does it seem that the more you look forward to something, the more likely it is to fall apart? This is the curse of raised expectations; I went to the top of the mountain, then got kicked back down.

At 10pm I get the following text: "Anyway, you are flaky. You are full of shit, and you will only get shit back."

I am so stunned, I laugh hysterically, uncontrollably. What happened in the last 24 hours that would provoke a 50 year old man to text something like that? He didn't just get nasty, he ran across the bridge and lit it on fire behind him. I text him a few times asking if he is serious, could he possibly mean this? What had I done other than fail to answer a text quickly enough? I come into work the next day and relay the story to the girls; they are shocked and appalled. He must be crazy, we think, or maybe he still has a wife around? What could explain this? I lick my wounds but send him a few texts: "What happened with you? I honestly don't understand?"

"Amore, I have strong feelings for you, I don't want to get hurt."

I know I have lost my mind, but I can't right myself. No matter how logical I try to be, my judgement is murky. How have I only known this man one week and I am throwing all sense out the window? One week ago, I wouldn't have thought myself to be weak or lonely but here I am. I have greater sympathy for the many times I have seen coworkers lose their shit over a bonehead because the tables have turned. After the stale toast date, Andrea calls...calls...calls. This is his MO. Finally I answer, half tipsy and so angry and hurt I could kill him. He turns everything on me; he is a pro at this game, a master manipulator. How many women is he torturing at the same time he torments me?

FIFTH DATE- ROOM TEMPERATURE

BEER SELECTION- I HOPE I NEVER TYPE THAT AGAIN

CURRENT CONDITIONS- NEUROTIC

Date 4- Moto Hair & Osso Buco

Along with 2.3 million other dreamy American girls, I studied abroad in Sevilla. While I went there ostensibly to learn Spanish and marry a matador, the best jewel that came from the experience were the friendships with other geeks. One such friend explained to me that she needed a boyfriend with a moto because she had "moto hair"- huge, long and wildly curly. I nodded in understanding when she said this to me; I too have moto hair. Long, blonde and glorious, my leonine mane has been begging to blow in the wind from the back of a motorcycle.

Friday night date- the Italian on a non-school night. I have to walk 30 blocks from my office to our appointed meeting spot to cool down, as I am literally buzzing down the street in nervousness and anticipation. I have a new hair cut and a short skirt (flat boots) and I'm ready make some mistakes. Sorta. I have not shaved my legs or anything else for that matter because although I am wildly attracted to this man, I don't trust him in the least and will adhere to my usual prudish nature.

We hop on his Vespa, my hair whipping in the wind, my heart full of smugness and delight. YES, I AM THAT PRETTY BITCH ON THE BACK OF A VESPA! YES, THIS MAN WEAVES IN TRAFFIC WITH ONE HAND ON MY LONG SUPPLE LEG! We head to Gottino for wine and snackies, then headed back into the night for our next destination. I was looking forward to the next glass of wine but he took my head and led me across the street to a tanning salon.

"Amore, should we tan?"

"Are you serious?"

"Amore, is that strange?"

"Are you serious?"

He had a package of spray tans left over from a trip to Mykonos the previous summer (he spends months of the summer in Mykonos- RED FLAGS), so we took turns. Am I easy going? Is he deranged? This could be the strangest turn yet. We air out, head back into the night with the delightful scent of Oompa Loompa orange trailing us, and head on to the next destination. We pull up in front of a small restaurant in Little Italy because he needs to have a chat with a partner. He is consumed with opening a new restaurant, which I have thus far found totally charming and interesting; restaurant chit chat is my most favorite topic. As we greet the manager, my date launches into a 20 minute conversation in Italian about book keeping. As the conversation winds down, I asked him how much he thought I understood.

"Amore, please...you understood everything." I was thrilled he thought so (because he was right) but unnerved by his blatant rudeness. We head back to our neighborhood in Brooklyn, taking the Brooklyn Bridge to enjoy the view and flying through traffic as only a Milanese who has been on a Vespa since he was 13 could. We head to his apartment to drop off the Vespa and head back out, but wind up in his lair. What a lair it is: amazing rugs from working in the design industry, custom kitchen with walnut cupboards, chic bathroom. This man can DESIGN. AND BUILD. TASTE LEVEL!!! We spend an hour discussing all his renovations before he makes his move. Can you call them "moves" though? Everything this man IS leads to seduction, but I am simply not that girl tonight. We kiss and roll around a bit, but he is so aggressive and shockingly strong that we have to come up with a safe word to ensure my release. Since "no" never really convinces him, "osso buco" becomes my battle cry, and he locks me down under kisses until I holler.

"Ahhhhhh basta, let me go! Marcello, basta!"

Between panting and kisses, "Amore, you didn't use the safe word. Don't use the safe word, amore! DON'T SAY IT!!!"

"OSSO BUCO!"

He releases me with the most exasperated look on his face; who knew "osso buco" could be such a heartbreaker. The night ends with me running out of the apartment and away from his clutches; I am exhausted from holding off his hard yoga body. He hollers as I run, "Do you need a ride home? AMORE?! Why do you leave?"

Never turning back, I walk home. I am slightly tortured and mussed and reek of spray tan, and worry that someone had turned into a Tinder cliche. But who?

FOURTH DATE: MIXED BAG

TRANSPORTATION: STYLISH WITH A FRISKY CHAUFFEUR

DELIGHTFUL BONUS: WAKING UP TORTURED BUT TAN

Date 3.5- The Afterparty

Its all or nothing with some men, especially when they are seeking the biblical "all", but after the first date with the Italian and the resulting onslaught of false affection and phone calls I was dying for more. Against my inner Rules Girl (my mother would die if she knew) I agreed to meet Marcello for 1 drink after the disappointing date with the petite gentleman. As I stepped out of the cab, I saw him literally running down the street towards me, hollering "Amore!" He picked me up, spun me around and kissed me.

What is the appeal of this man? I have an electric connection with him; my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. I can't hide how dazzling I find him. I have been a starving man in the desert for years, dealing with a toenail of a boyfriend with whom I had little in common, and now I sit across from a glorious cool glass of water. This man fairly explodes with ideas, commentary, proposals. He asks me, "What do you think, amore? Should we date a little?" I have no idea what this means in his world, so I play it cool and avoid answers. I strategically ignore that he is not terribly interested in what I do, just interested in what we have in common and my thoughts on his projects and businesses. He tells me I'm beautiful so often, I'll forgive him for not giving a shit about anything else.

At the ripe old age of 33 I am having a rebound! This is why humans have done this for centuries! Take your broken heart down to the bar and bathe it in booze and false expectations! Boldly date the WRONG MAN and love it! Plan the wedding in your head and imagine two half Italian teenagers glaring at you while you repeat your vows! CRAZY WHEELS ARE TURNING!

After a couple glasses of gorgeous white wine, we roll out into the night, kiss on the curb and I nearly hurtle into oncoming traffic to break away and hail a taxi. Get me away from this whirling dervish of a man before I fall into the abyss!

SECOND TANGO OF THE NIGHT: SO GOOD I COULD THROW UP

RECURRING THEME: MEN STANDING ON A CURB TO GET A LEG UP

STEPCHILDREN: BRING 'EM ON

Date 3: Low to the ground

Proving my theory about men over 40 and their peculiar habits, Richard asked me on a date by actually calling. I was so alarmed by this bizarre turn of events that I couldn't answer the phone, certainly wouldn't call him back and nearly deleted him from my pending boyfriends list. But I didn't, and finally agreed to meet him for a drink. One of those mysterious types who have a pHd in something useless, roast their own coffee and "trade" in order to make money from home and retire early, Richard was perfectly nice but just...off. He had spent months in ashrams seeking higher states of consciousness, made endless trips to Tulum to commune with nature (and cheap hookers?) and generally seemed to spend a tremendous part of the year vacationing. Very intelligent and polite, but just not my type. I should have begun this story with the truth however. As I had left the office, I changed into black boots as it was raining outside. I forgot that these boots have 6 inch platformed heels. These boots made me 6'4"; my date was 5'5" on a very optimistic day. I would never hold height against a fellow, but the variance was shocking. He looked up at me and said "How fucking tall are you?" I thanked him for the lovely evening, and hopped in a cab.

THIRD DATE- NICE BUT NO DICE

LESSON LEARNED- FLAT SHOES ALWAYS. A TALL GIRL CAN'T BE SAUCY.

WINE SELECTION- IMPROVES AS THE DATES GET OLDER. NO BUD LIGHT FOR THE BIG BOYS.

Date 2: Italian Stallion

Marcello and I had a fairly fast connection, owing to my ease with both Italian culture and perverts in general. We agreed to meet on an inauspicious Sunday evening. As we went back and forth about a location, he invited me to his apartment, which should have immediately tipped me off as to the level of pervert I would be dealing with. But I was lightly hungover and felt like I needed a reason to shower. After greeting and checking each other out (stylish!) I was most alarmed by how closely he resembled my former Italian love Carlo- were they mannerisms and inflections particular to the North of Italy? I couldn't be sure, but as I felt the first cocktail crawl up the back of my legs I thought I was in the presence of a ghost. Approximately 15 minutes into the date Marcello began what became a peculiar dance- him trying to wrestle me into a kiss, me trying to wrestle my way to the bar and out of his arms. But the connection was brilliant- we bantered in three languages, discussed mid century furniture and design, restaurants and the industry. As his stories of a long full life poured out, I blurted, "How old are you?". He confessed he had lied about his age, was 49, and divorced with two teenaged daughters living in a different city. Red flags were practically shooting out of his ears, but I hadn't laughed so hard with a man in years, and had conversations I had never imagined having with a man. As I listened to him ramble on about remodeling a Provencal kitchen, I realized I had cheated myself out of dating men I might actually have common interests with.

As he begged me to come back to his apartment, I said, "Are you out of your mind? I can barely fight you off in public! How could I ever be alone with you?" As Dorothy before me once asked, "Are you a good pervert, or a bad pervert?" Remains to be seen.

Second Date- STRANGE. FUN.

Cocktail selection- EXCELLENT NEGRONIS

Interesting tidbit- Men over 40 like to talk on the phone. They do not like when you point this out.

Date 1: The Devil is in the Eggs

I wrapped up work for the day and decided to be wild! Crazy! Spontaneous! Rip off the band aid and hurtle head first into the dating pool! A mildly attractive man with interesting travel photos messaged me, said he was in midtown, so I agreed to meet for a drink. I loved the spontaneity of the circumstance; it didn't allow me the time to be nervous or to start planning my wedding as I am wont to do. I raced out of the office with a fresh slick of lipstick and a song in my heart- back in the game! A MAN thinks I am attractive because Tinder told me so! I walked quickly down to 36th and saw him across the street lurking in a doorway. He looked sloppy, icky, with a very pallid complexion. My hopeful nature put a glow on his pictures that didn't exist in real life. I greeted him and he explained that our original destination was simply too fancy, too loud, too bougie. Since I knew this meeting would go absolutely no where, I perversely was my kindest, easiest going self and agreed to look for a better spot. We agreed on a casual bar a couple blocks down, where I ordered a glass of wine, and he ordered deviled eggs. Generally I find food to be challenging on a date, particularly a first date, but deviled eggs were a spirited choice. When one is ordering a snack on a date, one should think of how said snack appears as they chew and speak simultaneously. As the conversation progressed, I thought of myself as a charitable woman, Saint Desperada, allowing strange mannerless men the time to speak, and nodding patiently in acceptance. I became an actress, and the small sticky table my stage. When the check came ("I will NOT be having another drink, thank you!") I whipped out cash, which he smoothly pocketed, and fairly ran down the street. Its always the icky ones who try and touch you and actually press lips to face, but I managed to squeak out in the nick of time.

First date- NOT ENCOURAGING.

Wine selection- MEDIOCRE

Deviled Eggs- BOLD CHOICE