I missed DEXTER for THIS?

So I went on a date Sunday night. My first New York City date. I “met” the guy through the personals on bust.com through Bust magazine and had high hopes for this gent. He is 30, in magazine publishing, plays the guitar and seemed to be very attractive.

APPEARANCES ARE DECIEVING PEOPLE. Do not put up pictures of yourself that make you seem hotter than you are! That is just such a bad idea; I cannot stress it enough. Sure I put up a few pictures where my neck is at such an angle that I look like I have better bone structure than I do, but I wasn’t hiding a major skin disorder or a major jacked up teeth situation that causes a nerdy sounding lisp. Just don’t do it people.

So let me back up a little bit. So this Internet “bad-ass hottie” named Steve and I had been emailing for a few weeks and decided to go out for dinner and drinks. “Mamas gonna get some!” I casually thought to myself while making a thrusting motion of my pelvis (at work).

A few days before the date was to go down (if the pictures were accurate…zing!), Steve called me to chat. I was immediately caught off guard by what a stereotypically “nerd” voice he had. It was nasal with a slight lisp and he stuttered a lot. He also talked. A lot. Mostly about the difference between chrome slides vs. Digital photos in a magazine. Now I’m a design/magazine nerd, but such conversation is not the way to my heart, or my pants. He also divulged that the reason he couldn’t go out on Saturday is because he was going to UFC, or Ultimate Fight Championship.



Like the cage fighting you see on Spike TV when you’re flipping through channels...his “obsession.” Hmm…I hung up a half hour later feeling 98% “Oh fuck, how do I get out of this gracefully?” However, the 2% left rationalized that cool people can be into lame things. Take me for example, I love “Buffy The Vampire Slayer,” “Mystery Science Theater 3000” and went to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival for 6 years in a row out of choice. Or my roommate Serena! She’s cool as shit, but enjoys a good Renaissance Festival and likes horses. Or my sister! The epitome of cool, and she likes Linkin Park! I was feeling better and ready for our date.

The day before our date R2Steve2 (as he shall here on be called due to his cliché nerdy voice) called again and said we would be going to a Mexican restaurant on St. Marks Place. “Score!” I thought. I had had a very successful first date at a nice Mexican restaurant before and St. Marks is a trendy area. So the afternoon of the date I was filled with anticipation and butterflies. So I killed those butterflies with my pre-date ritual of a glass of wine and a bagel (well, the bagel wasn’t part of the ritual, I was just hungry). Except instead of one glass, I had three and was feeling a wee bit sloshed seeing how I had only eaten half a bagel that day. I realized that I had no idea where St. Marks Place was, if it was a park, circle, arch, dome, cube? I looked at the MTA map and saw that there wasn’t a St. Marks Place stop anywhere. Not wanting to call R2Steve2 back and reveal that not only am I new to the city, but I’m heavily geographically challenged, I searched the rolodex of my mind to think of who would know how to get around St. Marks. I knew there was only one man: my father. Seeing how my father went to NYU and spent a good chunk of the 60’s as a junkie laying around that area I called him up. Yes kids, I asked my dad for directions to my date drunk. Siiiighhh… But trusty old dad knew the directions of which trains I should take off of the top of his head and I was on my way.

Half an hour later, there I was, gussied up and looking fly, waiting for R2Steve2 at the corner of St. Marks (a street, not a park, circle, arch dome or cube) and third. Suddenly, he walked up and we exchanged glances. “What’s up, I’m Patsy.” I calmly said. “OH MY FUCKING GOD! HE’S SHORT, HAS GRAYING HAIR, LOOKS LIKE HE’S SUFFERING FROM LEPROCY, HAS A SERIOUS BUSTED TOOTH PROBLEM AND SMELLS LIKE ONIONS! RUN! RUN AS FAST AS THOSE IRONIC COWBOY BOOTS YOU ARE WEARING WILL TAKE YOU!” screamed my brain. But I’m not that shallow. I decided not to run and to continue on to the Mexican place and give the man a chance.

Now about this Mexican place. Turns out he takes me to Burritoville, a burrito-to-go place where you order at the counter. I got a taco salad and offered to pay but was met with R2Steve2 assuring me “Oh no, it’s on me, it’s the least I can do since we have to eat it in the cold.” Are you fucking kidding me? It was 32 degrees out! We shivered over our food talking awkwardly, most of the time just him talking about his new found love of shrooms and the best way to brew them in tea. Once the meal was over I thought, “Thank God, I’m getting the fuck out of here!” But then R2Steve2 asked if I wanted to go for a drink. And I just can’t refuse a damn drink, so I reluctantly said yes.

R2Steve2 took me to “The 24-hour Cocktail Lounge,” which I can best describe as the seedy bar at a seedy strip club, but sans strippers. We were the only people there (besides the 90 year old bartender who can’t speak anymore and just shuffles around) and there was no music playing. You could cut the awkward with a knife. We sat down at a booth that no doubt has already given me the Herp, and began awkwardly talking again as I chugged my Heineken. Finally another couple came in and started to have a normal conversation that was occasionally interrupted by bursts of laughter. “Do you think we have that kind of chemistry?” R2Steve2 asked. “No I don’t. I also think I have to go now.” And that was that.

Fuck. Me.
Patsy