Date 2: The Rankled Radiologist

I had unusually positive feelings about meeting Morris in person. After an hour long call on Valentine's Day, where his frenetic energy and slightly racy wit nearly burst forth from my phone, I had a sneaking suspicion our time together would be entertaining at a minimum. He chooses a Middle Eastern/Mediterranean cafe on the Upper West Side, and requests that I wait for him out front so he can escort me down the stairs because I'm far too tall and would hit my head on the overhang. He's bearded, my height, quite nice looking and dressed up for the date. As we settle in and size each other up, we start discussing personal history (he is a Jew from Iran- really starting this cycle of dating off with a bang)- he was born in Tehran but has lived in the US since he was very small. 

 That he is a tortured personality is evident- he wears it as plainly as he wears his snug patterned sweater that he says makes him look like Teddy Ruxpin. He was an intensely disciplined student and lived at home throughout his education because, he explained, that is what immigrant children do. He was devoutly religious in his 20s, then became whipsawed by the vagaries of practicing the religion. Didn't understand why his mother bought kosher meat, but ate in non kosher restaurants, didn't understand how to integrate sexuality and chaste piety into the modern world. He says he missed his window- he should have married young in his culture to have lots of children and a religious home and not worry about a soulful relationship. Now in his advanced years (38), it is too late and there is little point in marrying as it would involve prenups (he's apparently a very successful radiologist), and certainly no point in being in a relationship for anything other than a great connection. He is odd, completely lacking in filter, but altogether intriguing. I admire his self madeness- he is impressive in both intellect and accomplishment. Unlike many men I've been on dates with, I feel like he is quick to pull back some kind of curtain.

As we finally order, the waitress specifically asks us to wear masks when she approaches the table, and he ignores her. He explains to me that he has both had Covid and was vaccinated, and under his breath says he shouldn't have to obey this courtesy since he is paying. He also fumbles around for what turns out to be a Juul, and occasionally smokes it at the table.  We order markdown food and markdown prosecco, and I don't eat much because he nearly inhales it, and I have barely recovered from an earlier migraine. I am also on such an intensely strict diet to feel thin enough to date again that even cardboard pizza tastes like heaven to me...but that is a story for another day.

What is the protein of this story, you ask? It is this: the disease of people talking shittily about previous dates to their current date has to be one of the greatest offenses in modern dating. Compliments when told in the shadow of disparaging other women feel very hollow. He says things I begrudgingly want to hear- he's surprised that I'm as smart as he is (arrogant), I have gravitas that other women he has dated don't have (the start of what would be an endless diatribe against what seems to be MANY women, with Jewish Manhattanites as his most vilified target), I'm attractive and witty and cultured, yada, yada. These women talk about the interesting things they do and how fabulous they are, but they buy this interestingness as easily as they purchase a class at SoulCycle, rather than actually earning it.

At one point, unnerved by his vitriol, I tell him that I strongly believe we all need to be a little kinder to each other. I know it sounds a little cumbaya, particularly to someone carrying a tortoise shell of resentment towards the opposite sex, but I say it anyways- we meet people for 90 minutes over an unpleasurable meal because it isn't fun to eat in front of strangers who are eyeing you up the way my cousins in Texas look at hogs at livestock shows. We ask meaningless questions, we give polite answers and we hope that some spark of connection and humanity click while we slam drinks. We pass judgement and then tell subsequent dates about how vile and judgemental people are. In writing this, I know that I am also making him a caricature, with traits as outsized and unshaded as a portrait artist at Disneyland (he is now the Iranian Radiologist from the Upper East Side with a Chip on His Shoulder and Wandering Hands). This feels like a virulent strain I see popping up in the dating set- we reduce people to nothing so they fit in the little box we designed for them. But these people have their people who love them- families, friends, coworkers. They are real and worth something. I try to keep these comments as unharpylike as possible, and he manages to blow by them as quickly as he rips through our crappy pizza.

He says he loves that I don't have make up on (I do) because he's in constant need of dry cleaning because these vile, hungry women sully his collar with their concealer when they get close. He also explains that the more women say they are into sex, the less likely they are to be the fun, kinky ones. These women pretend for so long in order to keep him happy that they eventually get addicted to it once he unleashes his animal fucking on them, because he used all his meaningful lovemaking in his 20s and now only has angry ferocity left.   He says that I’m refined and communicate with a sophistication he isn’t able to; he says he is wholly unable to censor himself and make himself polite.  I personally have a hard time believing this.

I am foolish- for 90 minutes, I let the compliments numb me to his crassness, I don't fight when he reaches over to start kissing, don't pull away when he wraps me in an embrace in a doorway on Amsterdam. This has been a long, cold winter, and touching someone else feels extraordinary. For a first date performance, I feel like I'm holding it together. I'm not shrinking in intimidation (these days, men who walk upright feel out of my league), and I'm letting him run his mouth with probably more tolerance than he deserves. I'm trying to balance tolerance with observance- as my mother likes to parrot Maya Angelou's great quote, "when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time".

He tells me as we walk out in the cold that he wants to do things to me- lurid detail that is so surprising, I almost can't reconcile it with a man who has told me he is riveted by my intellect, and wore slacks and dress shoes to impress me in 30 degree weather. I know doctors and I get that there is a total lack of filter with some- but it takes me a couple days to really settle in that perhaps a fellow shouldn't be telling you he wants to bury his face in your vagina while you're walking down Central Park West after a first date. He asks me to come home with him and promises to just watch me and not touch- I tell him no, kiss him goodbye, and head home. In the moment I laugh it all off- in the morning, I feel unsettled and ill at ease, and have a very strong suspicion I won't see him again.

Some days I feel like I am 39 going on 19- I still don't understand men, don't understand the boundaries I should adhere to, and (pitifully) rarely understand how my worth plays into this market. Its a battle to stay open minded and easy going, yet strong within your identity and principles- as I've aged, I greatly admire people who understood this from a young age.  

A loud mouthed buyer I have a soft spot for from Roslyn with an accent you could cut with a knife recently told me I need to go have some fun and "get the stink off" me.  I just don't need someone dressed like Teddy Ruxpin who smokes Juuls in a restaurant in a pandemic to piss on my leg, if you know what I mean. Even if he is a doctor with second-home money potential.

Highlights of the evening

1) Inadequate prosecco accompanied by the bachelor's wispy puffs of Juul leaves the palate longing for a more refined offering.

2) When someone mentions step brother porn in a first chat, take them seriously. It will not get better from there.

3) In my business we say "A best seller is a best seller is a best seller". Pray on that one.

Day 4- Blast from the Past

As I was in the first few weeks of dating Pedro- weekly dates that we fun and easy and somehow ended up with us nekkid but not fornicating- I matched with a fellow named Jason. I went on a first date with him at a local biergarten that was so miserably tedious, I was quite sure he would have rather been clipping his toenails. We also learned that we creepily lived only 4 doors down the block from each other- the odds of a fail were very, very high. Imagine my surprise when just a few days later he invited me to a wine tasting event. I debated- if he didn't loosen up from the first date, this could be miserable. But WINE. LOTS OF WINE. So I decided to go, and ended up having a fabulous evening. I learned he is very smart and driven, collects wine obsessively, works out obsessively...does many things obsessively. But after a few walks around the room and chats with North Fork vintners, we both loosened up and eventually found our 30 something selves rolling around and kissing in the grass at Brooklyn Bridge Park. He left the next day for an epic trip to Paris and Barcelona- I gave him several recommendations and he took photos and texted from all. Somewhere around the tapas restaurants of Barcelona I lost him- he fell off the map, and I didn't hear from him until a few days after he returned. My fragile ego felt that a man should have texted very shortly after arriving, and not ask "Hey, want to grab a happy hour drink?" (I never said I was sane or easy). By that time I was already starting to fall into a strong lust haze with Pedro, and didn't feel the loss too terribly. Present day, trying to shake off my demons, I match with Jason once more. He reached out immediately and we start texting. Wouldn't this be a meet cute? Love came so close to this pair, circled the block to find parking for two years, then finally snuggled in on 21st Street. He asked me to a Jack Johnson concert with him and I agreed. I am optimistic leading up to the date; at a minimum I knew him to be a decent and engaging fellow and hope that perhaps we will be friends. We meet in Bryant Park and hop on subway out to Forest Hills. He is as cute and polite as I remember, and as before I have to push the conversation along a bit. We walk around snacking and drinking and he insists on paying- is this a date? I am honestly not sure. It took an obscene amount of wine to get this fellow to loosen up so long ago. He is very attached to his mother and brother which I adore, and talks about third wheeling with his favorite married people. We head into the stadium and this is where I find things fall apart. Jack Johnson is essentially elevator music- there are no peaks and valleys, just an occasional flush of recognition when you realize that he has had so many hits and yet they are all indistinguishable from the next. We note that we are the only people not smoking pot, and admit that neither of us really indulge in any illegal substances (but clearly both like the sauce). We both fade as the evening drags- tired, tired of pushing conversations about nothing, thinking about getting up early the following day- it would take far more animal heat to keep us sparking and you can't really fake that. We bolt out and hop in an Uber, and have a very hearty and friendly hug as we part ways on our block. Guess we both have to keep circling to find a parking spot in someone else's neighborhood.

Date 3- In Heat

My friend and I went to London for work recently, and extended the trip to include a fabulous getaway to the Cotswolds. We frolicked through meadows, chatted with sheep, and drank with locals (including a very frisky fellow who climbed up my tall body to get a kiss and may or may not have been missing teeth). I noticed as we wandered through the country towns, and later the streets of London, that an old familiar tingle was back. For the first time in months- nay, years- I noticed how many attractive men are in the world. I noticed their big hands, their finely tailored suits, their muscled buttocks. Although my head was not quite back in the game, my body was starting to send up alarm bells that she was in fact alive and ready to get up to no good. While swiping idly, I come across a very muscled and handsome firefighter in his 40s. He is big, tattooed, half Jewish and says he reads Bukowski. I see his broad tattooed shoulders and imagine being thrown over one of them and carried off to a British King sized bed. The rest of the world is swiping entirely based on physicality and sex appeal- IMA GIVE THIS A TRY. So I swipe right and promptly receive a very polite text. We exchange friendly messages over the next week- he wants to have a phone interview before we actually meet to be sure we have similar interests (BIG HANDS. MUSCLED ARMS. NO CONVERSATION REQUIRED.) Somehow I manage to avoid the interview and skip directly to the date round. We agree to meet for drinks at a wine bar in Park Slope, and I decide that although I'm feeling battered from the shitty date the night before, I'm going to throw on an off the shoulder top and tight jeans and give it my best. I feel slightly liberated by not caring if this has a future because I can think one thing only- PUT YOUR BIG MAN HANDS ON MY BODY AND MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. I circle the block before arriving at the wine bar per usual, and he walks up to me as I arrive. I find out he saw me cruising in nervousness, but my anxiety evaporates when I see how obviously jittery he is. He is smiling broadly and looks dazzled; its a balm to my wounded ego, and tonight I will try and believe the reflection I see in his eyes. He has a rough Brooklyn accent and is as handsomely rugged as he looks in his photos; he tells me he can't believe I actually look like mine (THANKS GODS). We work through margaritas and I start to remember that dating can actually be fun. We are not a match by any stretch of the imagination and we both know it- we live in two different worlds, and speak so differently. He is the conservative black sheep of a decidely intellectual family, and it doesn't take long to see it bothers him. He is divorced with three kids, and loves watching old musicals with his 8 year old daughter. I hoped for a wee bit of opportunistic sleaze but he doesn't have it. He's just a nice man, and needs someone with their feet on the ground. He tells me he is lonely and wants someone to do things with. After what seems like 9 drinks, he looks at me and says "What do you want with a guy like me?", and I realize both of us have probably miscast and undersold this fellow. He walks me home and holds my hand to his chest since the wind has picked up and my teeth are chattering. He kisses me sweetly in front of my door. We never speak again, and although this initially surprises me, I guess it was inevitable. The only thing people like us have in common is sex, and I don't think that is what he is hoping to find right now. And maybe its not really what would make me happy either.

Date 2- Bag Fetish

Dating these days is a study in habits and tendencies.  I'm always surprised when I hear that girls have a hard time with the Tinderfellas because dudes want to be pen pals and text endlessly and never actually meet.  I do not seem to have this issue.  Perhaps I swipe slightly adultier men who don't seem to have patience for the false intimacy of the text conversation and want to get down to brass tacks.  Or perhaps they are bored and lonely and want to see if I look like the (2 year old) photos I have in my profile. As such, my social calendar is full full full with drinks drinks drinks.

Drinks with Alex- he works for HBO, lives down the street in Park Slope, and is- dare I say- handsome.  Very cute smile, displays a variety of interests through his charming pictures, and asks me to dinner after a brief conversation.  

I work late and at the last minute change into a flared mini skirt I have stashed under my desk- this isn't my favorite look but I have to give up my usual lesbian attire if I am going to start interacting with straight men again.  My nerves are totally frayed- I thought after the first date I would feel a little more relaxed but that has not yet kicked in and I feel like throwing up on my Steve Madden shoes as I wait for him to arrive.  

We are having drinks at the bar I went to on my 2nd date with Pedro, so I am looking over my shoulder for a man who I have not yet met, and a man I know too well.  Alex arrives, we order cocktails and sit down to the chat.  He was married for 20 years- SURPRISE- and has an adopted son that he makes sure he explains is adopted because he wouldn't want his date to think he was foolish enough to have a child when he was so young but his ex wife was very foolish and had a child very young but he is a good man so he adopted the child.  I will give him credit- he is crazy about the son, and shows off instagram shots of him skiing and living his dream in Colorado.  Its a very intimate and strange thing to hear about your Tinder date's child, but when one swipes adultier men, they come with a history.   But overall I find him very difficult to talk to, and sense that he is not interested in me at all.  He was a frustrated rich Jewish kid who rebelled by going into the military to hang out with people from different walks of life (JUST SAY POOR, I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE IMPLYING) - I've already tangoed with tortured, spoiled men and don't want to tangle with this one.  He describes his post divorce life in detail- he has delved into photography as a hobby, and trolls the internet for free models to use for his portraits.  He is very into fashion and tells me he is obsessed with buying bags- goes as far as to describe it as a "bag fetish", which killed what little hard on I had left.   Handsome, smart, interesting....and still trying to piece his life together after a divorce.   But at the end of the evening- I am tired, hungry, buzzed, disappointed- he looks at me and says "Listen, I really have to get out of here, can't stay all night, sorry".  I am fairly certain my eyes bugged out of my head, and I internally shouted, "FINE BY ME, ASSHOLE.  GOTTA GET HOME TO GOLDEN GIRLS."   I thanked him politely, bid good bye, awkward hug, and nearly ran down the street to get away.

What is it about a disinterested stranger that can make you feel so badly about yourself?  I don't even know his last name, but his obvious condescension wore me down.  My friend told me that it was a bad idea to start dating before I felt whole and well again- before I could look in the mirror and say, "Yep, I like this, and I know someone else will too."  

I go home to my late night diet of cheese, crackers and hummus and wonder if I am ready to face these demons again when I'm just starting to feel normalish.

DATE 2- Les Miz.

COCKTAIL DU JOUR- Too much vermouth and pretension can ruin a Negroni.

FOOD ALLERGIES- Recently divorced men who fancy themselves Annie Leibovitz.

Date 1- Nantucket Red

Eli and I texted steadily over Memorial Day weekend; he seemed perky, intelligent and music loving. He revealed that he plays in a cover band with old lawyer friends and sent me Youtube videos of himself playing guitar.  I agreed to a Wednesday evening drink in the middle of an intensely busy market week- I am committed to trolling for Internet dates!

I walk from my office, vibrating and nauseous, and almost turn back five times.  Like a teenager, I  get a pep talk from a girlfriend- what exquisite torture the first Tinder date can be!   I slyly circled the block, groaning audibly to myself (I do the same during pap smears) while I walked, and spotted him standing in front of the hotel where we were due to have rooftop drinks.   I realize quickly he spotted me first, and in what will become a common theme in these Tinder dates, he catches me circling the block.   He is wearing Nantucket red chinos and brand new Adidas, and will later show me his very spiffy socks.   He didn't lie on his profile- he is Tinder 5'10",  which is actually 5'8" in real life.

As we head into the elevator that is sure to take us to paradise, a young urban fellow with face tattoos looks at Eli and says, "Dude, is this neighborhood dangerous?  Do I need to bring my gun?  I don't want to have to kill no one."   To Eli's credit, he is completely unratttled and calmly says, "No, man, neighborhood is fine, but do what you got to do".   The young urban fellow looks impressed that a short Jewish lawyer doesn't sweat for a second.

We have mediocre wine at a very odd rooftop bar that uses a boombox to funnel in music, and he begins to talk about himself.  He recently moved from the West Village to Chelsea and is hoping that the neighborhood will be as lively.  He is visibly worried that he will not have his creature comforts in this new backwater area-  I nod and assure him that he will most likely survive.  He shows me pictures of rugs he is thinking about buying and quickly scrolls past endless photos of boobs and vaginas and various tan body parts.   After two hours of listening to Eli talk about his marvelous self, I tell him I really must get home but I sincerely enjoyed meeting him.   At a minimum, I ripped off the band aid and got myself back in the dating scene.  He tries to kiss me and I just barely dodge his advance.   I hop on the subway, and immediately begin swiping up fresh meat.

DATE ONE-  Showed up, and didn't throw up!   I call this success!

WEATHER REPORT- A fresh and fragrant evening in Manhattan, enhanced by low clouds of electronic cigarette fumes.

WINE SELECTION- When one can only select from Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio, one realizes that there is no winning selection.    

The Lonely British King

This blog took a hiatus when I met Pedro.  Our relationship felt so precious that I couldn’t and wouldn’t tarnish it with my acidic snark.  I could turn the rest of the Tinder fellows into caricatures, but my Pedro, my love, I would not.   If I briefly sum up our 18 month relationship, turn the highs and lows and happy and sad tears into a quick summary, it would look like this: 6 months of inquisitive bliss in a bubble.  Big blow up. 6 months of doubt but furiously treading water and hoping for sunnier skies.  Bigger blow up.  6 months of trying to end it but never wanting to.  I am so envious of that couple in the first 6 months- they had it all.   But isn’t that always the case?  Ignorance is bliss until it isn’t.  I am so sad and regretful for the downward spiral of the final 6 months.  I should have cut him loose when I really had doubts instead of keeping him close to me and constantly chipping away at him, at us.   By the end he said I had worn him down, exhausted even his romantic heart.  We needed to break up, but so much of my behavior towards the end was unnecessary and shameful; we degraded something that was once special.   This unfortunately seems to figure in my thoughts much more prominently than the logical reasons why we ended everything.

And now here I am, 5 months after our final night together, still turning over what this means in my head.  My grief hits me like waves of nausea- a moment, a conversation comes back to me and sends me into a tailspin.  I haven’t seen him since the morning I left his apartment, but my eyes deceive me and I see his ghost everywhere.   I am terrified I will see him on a date and skirt restaurants we once frequented.  I never realized how many bald men were in New York until I broke up with one I ached for.    

A friend sent me an article on Lifehacker that suggests little Tinder flings are like paper cuts- they don’t get the sympathy that broken marriages or cohabitations receive (rightly so) but they hurt.   It wasn't the longest relationship I had been in, but it rocked my world and brought down my defenses.  I know Pedro never felt that way and wanted to keep pushing past the boundaries, but for me, at least for a year, I let them down.  I gave him a key to my apartment and loved finding him there.  We spent every night together, and bathed each other every morning.   He scrubbed my back, then I scrubbed his, and always rinsed off the soap so I  could press a kiss to the shoulder I loved.   We had an intensely intimate relationship, and I miss it.

This relationship was a tease.  I saw a preview of life with a man who loved to bake bread and spatchcock organic chicken, then take me to bed and make love all night long.  I found him intensely attractive, loved his body and how our bodies moved together.   He made me laugh and he brought passion to my life.  In this movie trailer, you don’t see the problems and wounds, or the nature of two fractured persons struggling to trust each other.  But how will I find someone like this again, who shares my interests and humor and makes me weep with pleasure?  

A friend of a friend gave me his unused extra bed from an apartment he sold in Dubai- a very comfortable and luxurious British King.  Every night I roll to the middle of my big bed, and throw my arm across a pillow.  In my most secret thoughts, I imagine this is him, and he pulls me close into the nook of his chest and arms.  I don’t know if its still Pedro, or the faceless person I hope will come along sooner rather than later, but I wonder how many people in Brooklyn are living in their little apartments, moving through their lives, imagining that someone is holding them at night.     

Back in the Saddle

Dear friends,

After a two year hiatus (to be addressed at a later date when I've had far more Muscadet and feel like reopening a wound), I am back on the Tinder. I'm looking for love in the only place I know, because if I wait for this man to just arrive himself in my life, I will grow old and bearded while waiting. If I am perfectly honest, I am not ready to be doing this- I don't feel good about myself right now and am in the mental state that I can't quite discern why anyone would want to date me. Every previous break up felt like a liberation- back on the scene! Partying with my people! Tearing up the town! But I don't feel that way this time. I miss my boyfriend and can't seem to shake this sadness.

Prematurely or not, I'm hitting the app and swiping aggressively because sometimes I think its a numbers game. I'm weeding through these men knowing they will be a treasure for someone, trying to get better with first date jitters and not lose my mind in the process. But these are shark infested waters, as everyone knows. In the two weeks since I downloaded the app, I have:

a) been asked if I enjoy spanking.
b) been asked if I am a sub or a dom, after being called "cold". (He slipped his own status in a subtle way- "I enjoy healthy cooking, running in the park, sailing, I'm a dom, enjoy Crossfit and make time for charity work.")
c) received suggestive images of torso and nether regions (ok, I egged him on a little).
d) received a fully nude picture of a man proudly displaying his ding dong (different man from above- I did NOT egg this on).

I would call this a fruitful two weeks, if unsuccessful in the actual pursuit of meeting someone kind and normal.  When the spanker first proposed his question, I burst into tears at my desk.  This is what is out in the world? This is what I have to look forward to?  I buried my head in my hands for a few minutes, then shook off my sorrows and kept swiping.  Up the food chain!

Date 15- From Russia with Love

Dimitri showed up in quiet Park Slope with an enormous Porsche SUV; one would have been forgiven for expecting a bejeweled and bechained rapper to step down from behind the wheel. He chose a corner bar that Marcello frequents as he lives only a half a block away; my coworkers mused that it would be the sweetest justice for Marcello to see me on a date with a nice big handsome Russian. What a laugh that would be! Unfortunately Dimitri was a rather small fellow, the top of his head barely reaching the top of my shoulder (I really must examine these Tinder photos more carefully to save all parties from the awkward moment of realizing that I am 6 inches taller than the man). But most importantly, he wasn't a personable or thoughtful fellow; I couldn't tell if he was disinterested or terrible at communication, but I fully expected (and would have been quite fine) to never speak to him again. He looked like he would have rather been trimming nose hairs than having drinks with a dull bird like me.

This brings me to an interesting point: if a man is delightful and the life of the party, a few physical undesirables don't matter. A former boyfriend of mine was a slightly nutty Ukrainian (much like the small Russian- a Jewish entrepreneur with hustle in his veins), and in the beginning I didn't find him terribly attractive. He wasn't conventionally handsome, with rather European teeth and a cromagnon hairline. But he had personality in spades- he could make me laugh from my toes, and was thoughtful, passionate and smart. I ignored that he cried too frequently and went a bit looney in the denouement of our relationship- for a time he was terribly fun to date and possibly the best passport a girl could have to the 5 boroughs.

Anyhow, Porsche-driving Dimitri and I had the requisite Tinder two drinks, plodding through tedious conversation about travel and apartments, and headed our separate ways. He doesn't offer me a ride home in his ostentatious SUV so I strut home 20 blocks, thankful that Marcello didn't walk through the door of the bar.

DATE FIFTEEN- Just like Dr. Zhivago...if you completely forgot how the story goes.

APERTIF DU JOUR- Brighton Beach Bummer.

WARNING LABEL- Beware of horseradish vodka.

Life Before the Tinder- Roman Holiday

July 2008

We hadn't been dating for more than three months when we went to Istanbul together; waiters asked us how long we had been married, and we said, "We finally left the kids at home with their grandparents". They smiled and nodded; other than wedding rings, we looked from the outside world as a happy unit, such was our affection and ease with each other. In Istanbul we were equals, both lost in the language and trying to navigate maps and heat. To work as a team was one of the most exhilarating experiences, and we both enjoyed the challenge of traveling in an unknown culture. After Istanbul, we went to Rome for a few days, a last hurrah before we would be separated for 6 months, by visa regulations too strict to breech.

I first went to Rome as a 17 year old girl, fresh from high school and inexperienced in nearly every way of the world. I threw my coins in the Fontana di Trevi, and returned 8 years later, this time with my Italian love. He was always at a disadvantage in the United States; he barely spoke the language, and the customs were not his own, made worse by his shyness. He preferred for me to negotiate taxis and order food. But Rome was his oyster, his language, his history, his people. He pranced around in his tight jeans and designer sunglasses and looked as Italian as Michelangelo's Davide; in my eyes, he was even more beautiful. It was my first experience traveling with a boyfriend; although the girlfriends I had traveled with in the past were troopers, this was entirely different. This was a strong hand catching me before I stumbled over cobblestones, a tourist who charmed his countrymen into taking pictures of him with his American girl, a lover telling me we could be happy living in a little sun-filled apartment in Trastevere. We walked across the Tiber at midnight, holding hands and breathing in the heat. For the first time in my life, I understood why poets write sonnets and musicians write love songs; this was such bliss, and I had never loved a man who embraced me so fully and loved me so purely, for every oddity and quirk.

The night before he left, he made me promise to wake him up if he fell asleep; we didn't want to miss a moment together. I walked him to the train station at dawn, boarded the train with him, and kissed with force until we felt the engines rumbling as it prepared for departure. This man who always seemed so cold before our romance, stood between train cars as it pulled away, blowing me kisses with tears in his eyes. As the train pulled away, I put on the beautiful sunglasses he had bought me to match his own, and I wept. When finally the train was out of view, I walked back to a cafe and bought a cappucino to take to my hotel, but couldn't drink it. I couldn't watch RAI on tv, and I had no desire to try and speak Italian. I finally summoned my strength and wandered about the city, but saw nothing. For me, Italy was over. When would I see him again? What is the purpose of finding a love so exhilarating, but so impossible? For the first time I realized I didn't want to be alone; I knew how to take care of myself, but unexpectedly, truly when I was looking the other direction, I found a man who wanted to take care of me.

We stayed together for two years, and shortly before we broke up he had to go back to Italy again for his visa. I was tormented, nearly destroyed by being separated once more. The night before he left, like that night 2 years before, he asked me to wake him up if he fell asleep. He held me tightly and said,"I'll be back soon, and then we will be happy, won't we? Then we will be happy." The desperation in his voice haunted me, because I knew what he wanted, and worse, I knew what he deserved. He should have had a girl who squeezed him back and said, "Don't worry! Nothing will hurt us! We can make it!" His terrible girlfriend could do nothing but weep; I knew our end was near, and couldn't bear the grief.

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