Dating Quirks That Drive Us Nuts!!!

We’ve all seen the hilarious Seinfeld episodes that feature unbearable daters, à la “she eats her peas one at a time.” Well, that’s actually one of my favorite things about dating, the quirks.  Sure, you have some interesting friends and acquaintances…but only when you cross that special dating line, do you get down to the really nitty-gritty, juicy, peculiar stuff that most people don’t want others to know about. 

I’ve dated some weirdos (gasp, shocking—right?) and I’m thrilled to find out that you have, too! Here’s a few of my own faves and a few shared by friends. You can decide for yourself which YOU would put up with.

The Toddler

“Look, ma—no hands!” He’s the guy who’s still OBSESSED with his penis. He pees with the door wide open using no hands (turns disastrous if something else suddenly catches his attention,) he walks around shaking and dangling his stuff whenever he can, and he still pees in the shower—ALL the time. Come on man, get a GRIP!

The Cross Dresser

He thinks it’s a turn on to wear whatever of yours he can get his hands on…garters, stockings, heels, bustier, and even Halloween wigs. Newsflash: most women do NOT like this, and WILL run out the door.

The Poor Groomer

He clips his nails in the kitchen sink. Umm—is there something wrong with the bathroom? My solution: save the clippings and serve him an extra side dish with his next meal!

The TMI’er

You just had sex and now he wants to tell you how he’s “slept with 9 other girls in the past 2 months” and how “the ‘younger girls’ really have no idea what they are doing.” REALLY?? Let’s reinstate the no talking after sex rule, thanks. 

The Mustache Metro

He spends HOURS in front of the mirror. If one piece of his hair, mustache, goatee or whatever is the slightest bit out of place, his whole day is ruined and hence, so is yours. Get over yourself, I know I did!

The Disturbed

He says things to you like “you look so good I want to chloroform you” or “let me know if you can’t breathe” as he chokes your throat. ALWAYS sleep with one eye open with this one!

The Fanatical Gum Chewer

He never stops chewing gum. Seriously, never! I mean who doesn’t love a good piece of gum? Especially in those early dating days when you care about your breath...but if you’re burning through 3 packs a day—3 words—annoying oral fixation.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg—there are SO many more to share, I might need to make this a series! Send me your favorites and it might be featured in one of my posts. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to share my blog with your friends and connect with me on facebook and twitter.

Blame Canada.

There’s something about NYC that just gives me that itch sometimes. The nightlife is bustling, there’s an exciting rhythm that makes me want to stay out and be a part of it—EVERY night, ALL night long. As you can imagine, this sometimes leads to crazy, fun, wild, bad decisions.  

I went out to dinner with a male friend of mine. I had a stressful day so I enjoyed a strong, fancy pre-dinner tequila cocktail while I waited for him at the bar. We sat down to eat and shared a bottle of wine. We went to a nearby outdoor bar afterwards. It was a beautiful summer night with a great buzz in the air. We had a few more drinks…well I should say…I had a few more drinks. And then shots. I really hate doing shots alone but he’s one of those friends who just don’t take one for the team. Anyhoo….a little while later we called it a night and by WE, I mean HE. We said our goodbyes and I jumped in a cab. A few blocks from home I started to hear little voices in my head. I was having a conversation with myself in the back of the cab, something like—bad girl “I don’t really want to go home”  good girl “But no one’s around, it’s a bad idea” bad girl “I’m a big girl, I can just go to my local watering hole alone for one or two” good girl “ We’ve been down this road before, it’s a bad, bad, bad move, turn around right now and go to bed—you might even still be able to go to the gym tomorrow” bad girl  “That’s all you care about, is the gym. They know me there, it will be fine, nothing weird will happen, I will just take a peek inside” good girl “Haha, yea OK crazy, you’re on your own.”  Driver re-routes to bar.

I walk in the bar, everyone yells “Norm,” ok maybe they really didn’t…but you get the picture. I made the rounds saying hello to all the regulars and popped a squat at the end of the bar. I’m pretty drunk. I have no business being there, but what else am I going to do on a Tuesday night? A guy sits down a few stools next to me and I see him checking me out through the corner of my eye.  At this point I can’t be bothered because I am too preoccupied trying to catch the objects (ice cubes, lemons, cherries, etc) that the bartender is trying to throw down my shirt from across the bar (did I mention I go there a lot?). Somehow this guy at the end of the bar gets caught in the cross-fire and seizes the opportunity. Bingo, game on.  We chatted for a while. If I remembered what we talked about I would tell you—but I don’t, so I can’t, so I won’t. He walks me home—what a gentleman. Enter the black out.

Fast forward to the next morning. My bedroom looks like a crime scene. My clothes and pillows are thrown all over, there’s an open condom wrapper on the floor (safety first—NO MATTER WHAT!). Awesome. My head is pounding but at least I’m up on time for work. I go to get a glass of water. There’s a bottle of wine, a half drunken beer and a napkin on my counter. The napkin has a name and phone number on it. I’m amused. I google the area code. Canada. Blame Canada. Somehow, I get through work. The bartender bbm’s me “at least one of us got lucky last night”. “Thanks for the shots, go f**k yourself,” I reply.

I ran home after work because I had plans to go out again. Busy girl. SO HUNGOVER. There’s the napkin…still on my counter.  I text “what a hot mess last night, huh?” He replies, “yea pretty messy but at least you remember.” Me “whoa, whoa, whoa, who said anything about remembering?” Skip to later that night. By now I have gathered that this guy is visiting from Canada (sorry I am not always that quick, thought maybe he lived here now) and was leaving tomorrow. The curiosity, the temptation, I couldn’t resist. I had to see just how good OR bad my beer goggles were. He came over at about midnight. We had both been out drinking but not nearly as sloppy as the night before. As soon as I see his face the flashbacks start hitting. He’s cute. SHORT. Says he’s 5’7 but not joke, he’s barely 5’4. Tatoos—lots  of them. Longish hair. Turns out he’s half Italian and half Chinese. Pretty interesting mix, and incidentally my first Asian. I ask him how old he is, he says “26”. I ask if he knows how old I am, he replies “what 27 or 28”? I say yea, let’s go with that.  Cougar, cub—here we go again. He recaps the night before for me. A little more detail than I was looking for but nevertheless sounds like it was a real good time. Apparently we gave my doorman a great show if he was watching the camera on the roof. Then we moved to the bedroom.  I will save the details for my X-Rated novel that will be coming out in the fall. According to my new Canadian sweetheart, I started losing my patience with him in the bedroom about a few things so he decided to leave before it got too crazy. Ok now we are caught up—and back to the present day.  I thanked him for the wonderful bedtime story and told him I was too tired to mess around, and that we will only be cuddling until morning wood. I haven’t cuddled in a while. I forgot how annoying it can be when you REALLY need sleep and there’s a guy grunting and breathing all over you.

Like clockwork he’s ready for me to deliver on my morning promise. Once again, I will spare you with all the visuals except one that I still can’t get over. As I mentioned, this fella has tattoos. Well, one of his tattoos is on the inner underside of his arm. It’s of his Chinese grandparents. A portrait.  He’s on top of me and literally—THERE THEY ARE—I’m making eye contact with this kids CHINESE GRANDPARENTS. They are STARING at me!  I’m trying to enjoy myself but this is just creepy.  I say “dude you gotta do something about this—you’re grandparents are WATCHING US—they are looking right at me, I can’t do this”. We change positions.  He laughs and says “he never really considered the placement when he got it”.  Damn straight kid, and no joke you really should do something about that. I take a quick shower. I walk into my living room and there he is—standing in the middle of the room NAKED peering around my apartment. “You gonna put some clothes on or what,” I say. “Not yet ,” he says “I’m really comfortable naked”. “That’s great,” I say.  I sit on the couch to check the TV. This mofo slowly sits his naked, hairy, BARE ass right next to me on my nice COUCH. Are we supposed to be having a moment here?? Because really I can’t even look in his direction—I stare straight at the TV. All I can think is—ARE YOU FOR REAL?!  I got dressed as fast as I could in hopes that he would follow my lead. He tells me he loves NYC and even went to inquire about joining the NYPD but he would need a green card. I say, “well don’t get any ideas Canada, cuz I ain’t marrying ya…but I hear you can find someone for that online.” I walked him back to his hotel because it was on my way to work. I have manners. “I’ll add you on facebook,” he says. Great, another one—just what I need.

On a side note: I got lucky because this guy was a total gentleman and sweetheart but let’s be real…bad decisions sometimes lead to bad things so please be safe out there.  

So………………What do YOU do when a guy doesn’t call?

We’ve all been through this before, right? You meet a guy—you had a great time—you gave him your number—a week or two goes by and—NOTHING.  No calls, no texts, N-A-D-A. You’re shocked—you’re wounded—you’re perplexed.  Well, if you’re anything like me, then you probably casually start replaying the scenario in which you met, over and over in your head…looking for clues about what could possibly have gone wrong.  Then you might mull over some of the things you said or did, that you wish you had said or done just a tad differently (especially if you were drinking!). THEN, once you’ve exhausted all the scenarios of beating yourself up….you run through all sorts of reasons about why he didn’t call due to his own personal issues or malfunctions. You know the drill—he lost your number, he’s a player, he’s young, he was drunk, he’s intimidated, he’s gay, he just got out of a relationship, he’s an idiot, etc., etc., etc. And then FINALLY (but always), you land upon the revelation that it doesn’t even really matter—it wasn’t meant to be—it’s HIS loss for not calling anyway. This, by the way, is all just a hypothetical manner in which someone might handle a silent “rejection”.

None of this strikes a chord so far? Hmmm….then maybe you are more like my friend “Roxy” (name changed to protect her identity). Let me tell you how my dear friend, Roxy, recently handled a situation when a guy that she met didn’t call her. Picture this. Winter, 2011 (February—the month of love to be exact). Hunter Mountain, New York. Roxy goes out with some friends after a not so hard day on the slopes. It’s the end of the night. Roxy’s on the dance floor swinging her hips and having a great time. All of a sudden, like a rockstar’s dream, Roxy is surrounded by a group of drunk, young men in Elvis costumes. You heard me—ELVIS. 

 

Roxy and one of the Kings of Rock ‘n’ Roll start dancing. She typically hates Rock ‘n’ Roll but it’s OK because she immediately feels a SERIOUS connection. Now, I know Roxy, and in this situation, she would normally grab a bull by the horns and go home with him—or at least take his number so that she’s in control of next steps. However, much to her friends suggestions, she has recently been re-evaluating her approach and was on a mission to try a different one—starting with this fella. It’s not easy, but Roxy lets the guy make the first move…and despite his repeated requests, she refuses to go back to his lodge with his gaggle of King impersonators. Who knows, maybe Roxy will even try to impersonate a little herself and play a little hard to get with this one, after all, there was a connection! Alas, Elvis asks for her number but as it turns out his jumpsuit has no pockets—therefore, he has no phone. Roxy stuffs her number in Elvis’ jumpsuit while thinking, hmm—this doesn’t seem very full proof, I hope he doesn’t lose it.  Elvis softly serenades “Love Me Tender,” they lock lips and say good night.

A few days go by back in NYC and nothing. No calls, no texts, no entries on missed connections—N-A-D-A. Roxy thinks to herself, I just knew he would lose that number in his pocket-less jumpsuit! She calmly starts piecing together all of the details she learned from their brief encounter. He likes to ski and dresses up as Elvis. Those aren’t very common attributes. He said he lived in the East Village (on first ave and first street to be exact). Well, there’s a lead. She knows his first name is Bill—another clue! So Roxy did what any of you might do????? She searched endlessly on Google, Facebook, plenty of fish, Elvis impersonator sites….it just wasn’t enough information for Roxy to zone in on her new man. So she researches bars in his neighborhood and narrows it down to the one place she is convinced her Elvis would be most likely to frequent. She goes to the East Village after work, innocently strolls around his block. No sign of him. She heads to what she thinks is “his” local bar, sits down and waits. Nothing—No Elvis, no Bill—no blue suede shoes. 

So what dear readers did this bodacious Roxy do next? Well, you’ll never guess…so let me just tell you! She put aside her brand new “let the guy make the first move” approach—and took matters into her own hands. The next day at work, she put a few words down on paper….made some copies….grabbed a roll of tape……..and took a stroll down to  first ave and first street. This Queen wasn’t going to let this potential King go. Roxy posted her new homemade flyers (see below for the ACTUAL flyer that was posted—only her name was changed!) ALL over the East Village!!!!!!!  Telephone poles, street signs, mailboxes—if Elvis was “in the building”, he was NOT gonna miss this one! Feeling charged and liberated, Roxy went back to “his” neighborhood bar sat back patiently and waited for him to either walk in or flood her inbox—after all, he would be so relieved she found him.

Well folks, I wish I could say this story had a happy, fairytale ending, you know, the kind to tell your grandchildren…but I can’t. The only email Roxy received from her flyer was from a random guy saying “he’s an idiot, you’re cute, call me” but sigh—nothing from Elvis. Who can say if“Bill aka Elvis” did or didn’t see the flyers or how he would have reacted if he did. How would you react??? So while I can’t say I agree with or approve of what my friend did, I will say—she’s a hopeless romantic who has a lot of heart and some gigantic balls! And alas, we can just add this story to the files of crazy shit my friends tell me.

I think it’s most appropriate to end this one with a quote from the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll himself:

“ ‘Til we meet again, may God bless you. Adios.”
-Said in 1977 at the end of a concert during his last tour

When honesty is NOT the best policy

Just like my moods, my dating life has its ups and downs. One thing that’s fairly consistent is that just when I think I have seen and heard it all, the surprises keep coming.

I went on a ‘date’ (using this term loosely) this past weekend with a guy that I met a few nights earlier at a bar. Granted, we met at the end of the night so we really didn’t get to know each other, but I did recall that he was pretty cute. He actually picked up the phone to call me to make plans instead of the typical texting back and forth. We decided to meet for a late afternoon rendezvous. I felt pretty optimistic about the possibility of a great evening.

It was a beautiful day so we went to a hotel roof bar to enjoy some time outside. There was no hiding that we were attracted to each other and both pleasantly surprised that we looked even better in daylight. We smirked and chatted a bit while I sipped my delicious mojito and he sat back drinking his beer. The conversation was a bit forced but nevertheless, it flowed. I’m not really sure how many red flags I encountered within the first 30 minutes because, well, I had to stop counting.

I quickly learned that this 27 year old fella had been laid off from his bartending job a few days ago. I could tell that it was all still very raw for him. He was bitter and openly expressing his concern about not knowing how he was going to pay rent (I started to feel a little guilty about the $16 mojito that I just ordered).  I gave him some words of encouragement and the conversation moved on (temporarily). 

Schmo—let’s call him Schmo, well, because he was one—went on to fill me in about how he grew up in Michigan until he was about 17 years old, after which he was kicked out of his parent’s house. Then he headed south to attend university. He went on to attend 5 different colleges, in 4 different states. Schmo didn’t manage to graduate from any of them, but he says he learned a lot. This Schmo also didn’t like to stay in one place for too long (maybe the law was following him?). Actually, he did mention an arrest when he was 16, for breaking and entering…I won’t get into it.  Next up is his family situation...Schmo doesn’t have a relationship with his parents—at all. “I might send my mom an email tomorrow to wish her a happy mother’s day,” are his exact words. What a doll. I decide not to judge and to give this Schmo a proper chance, he’s cute and I haven’t been on a date in a while.

We leave the fabulous roof bar to find something "cheaper" where we can watch the game. As we pass a nearby pub we see a sign for happy hour, he’s sold. Schmo asks the bartender about the specials. $10 bud light pitchers—he looks and asks me if that’s ok. Sure why not, I got this one, I say. “Ok” he (a little too) gladly says. I’m irritated but whatever, I’m a sport. Schmo starts chatting up the bartenders, I could tell he was not just being friendly, Schmo had an agenda, this Schmo wanted a job. A few minutes later one of the bartenders takes a break from behind the bar to enjoy his tobacco dip. Guess what?? Schmo likes dip, too. He even had his own tub with him—what a coincidence! Would I mind if he partook at the bar? Go for it. After about 20 mins of watching him spit into a cup, I ordered 2 shots of jack. I was already buzzed, what else was I going to do?

As I anticipated, a few minutes later, Schmo takes out a resume to hand to the bartender. It was a little awkward but I guess I admire his motivation, or at least I should. Mind if I take a look, I ask? Sure. The first line, his objective, says ‘seeking full time employment’. Here, take it back I don’t need to see it…2 more shots please! 

3 pitchers and 3 shots later, we were making friends all over the bar. Somehow 7 hours had gone by with this Schmo but now it was time to make a decision. He had told me earlier that he had to stop by a birthday party down the street and invited me to join.

Who’s the friend, I innocently ask? Oh, just a female friend of mine. Cool, I say…contemplating if I want to keep the night going or head home. Well if you are going to come, then there is something I should tell you, he says. There is an uncomfortable pause. I’ve hooked up with the friend who’s birthday it is. Umm…ok I say.  So then if I go, would that be weird for you…or for her, I ask?  No, he says…I just wanted to let you know so that there aren’t any surprises. Umm ok, I repeat. There is another long pause as I mull it all over in my head. Like how long ago are we talking about here, I ask? Umm…I don’t know…like last night, he says.

I look at Schmo in what I imagine can only be described as sheer and utter disbelief—I was dumfounded. The scene went something like this....WHAT?!?! Are you SERIOUS?? Are you really trying to take me to a birthday party right now for a friend who you just had sex with LAST NIGHT?!?! WHY WOULD YOU TELL ME THIS, ARE YOU AN IDIOT!?!  Schmo tells me that he’s mad at himself for being "so honest". Yea well you should be, I say! I’ve met a lot of Schmo’s in my time but never one quite like this.  Many, many expletives later I made him leave the bar and warned him to never call me again. At least he made my decision easy.

Moral of this story: Don’t mess with a Schmo, even an honest one.

   

Cougar or pedophile?

Two very distinct…and seemingly unrelated words—yet is it possible the line between them is blurring?

First let’s do a definition check…what exactly is a ‘Cougar’? It is almost universally defined as a slang term for a woman in her 30s or 40s (although it used to be just 40 and up) who seeks out, preys on and actively pursues casual sexual relationships (that’s what it says!) with young men (typically at least 10 years younger).

Now let’s compare that with the definition of a pedophile......An adult who is sexually attracted to young children.  

Do you see why there might be some confusion on the interpretation of these two terms?  This question came to mind when I met a friend out for a few drinks after work. From the outside, it was a seemingly regular happy hour spot but as soon as we walked in—we felt OLD. Now, I have to admit…we both look pretty young for our age and can easily hang in any circle—but looking around at this sea of underage boys, I felt like just even smiling at one of them would be committing some perverted crime. I mean, just HOW young could they really be because they all looked around 19 years old—and well, that could be a problem. Are we supposed to start proofing guys now before even making eye contact?

You may be surprised to hear this but we fled that bar like two cougars being hunted down and hope to never return! Yet a few nights later I was faced with the very same question at a swanky spot in the neighborhood. I walked up to the bar to order a few drinks for my friends and met a cute guy sitting next to me. He just got off his shift bartending somewhere else and stopped in to have a night cap—a scotch on the rocks.  We quickly immersed into a great conversation and before you know it two hours had gone by.  As we were profoundly debating the big bang theory—joking—but whatever it is that we were talking about it—it was pretty deep, not your typical first introduction conversation. Then...I’m not really sure how it came up but he made a reference to just getting out of school and I nearly spit out my drink. Just how old are you, I coolly ask? He replies –22--! Ok, not to be an ageist here...but do you know any 22 year old guys who would go out ALONE on a Saturday night and sit at a crowded bar drinking scotch on the rocks? There were just no warning signs about this one!  And by the way…didn’t he just legally start drinking last year (mental note: he would have a lot of catching up to do).

So in my head now, I’m wondering…what exactly is my cut off age—18, 20, 22? This was getting ridiculous. I was skeptical but I convinced myself that since we spoke for more than two hours upon meeting that he MUST be special and to just go with it. (Side note: This might explain why friends keep calling me a cougar).  I gave him my number and left.  He sent me a really sweet, perfectly worded ‘nice meeting you’ type of text the following day. However, if I had paid closer attention to my own rules…I would have been forewarned by his usage of ‘Miss <your first name goes here>’ in his very first text—as I previously outlined in my 5 sure signs that you are dealing with a douchebag post.

I have to admit, I felt a little dirty telling my friends that I was going out with such a youngin…and knew there would be no end in sight to the jokes that were about to come my way for this one. Nevertheless, we went on two really long, romantic dates. There was something really sweet about this lil fella as he tried to impress me with thoughtful plans and took me to hip and trendy spots. The problem, for me, was that he also tried just a little too hard to get me back to his place every time. With each failed attempt at getting in my pants his persistence finally wore off and alas, he was phased out—sparing me from crossing my newly defined personal pedophilia grey line (I may have to copyright this phrase).

In my opinion, the term cougar has become so mainstream and liberally used nowadays that it seems to simply refer to a woman dating a younger guy, regardless of age. It’s amusing that the general public subscribes to the notion that ‘cougars’ are out there hunting rather than being hunted.  In my experience, I have seen the opposite...so maybe everyone is just more open-minded about age when choosing dates, lovers and partners nowadays.  While age disparity tolerance levels are personal, that fine line does exist out there—it’s just different for everyone.  My lesson in this one is that while this cub was surprisingly mature, well versed and a GREAT conversationist…I’m trying to narrow my age gap just a little to something that works better for me. So while I’m still open to dating younger guys, I might not go quite so young (into the early 20’s) like some of the more certified cougars out there.

You can definitely bet on more postings on cougar topics to come…