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.