If you recall the post about me meeting that hot South African guy, you may be wondering what ever came of it. The answer: Me crying through the streets of Manhattan in a bad neighborhood that I wasn’t familiar with. In a dress. At night.
Part 1 of the torturous tale:
The night started off terribly when he made me wait twenty minutes for him outside the dumpiest little take-out place anyone has ever seen.
Do we all remember the post I’ll Totally Trade You A Green Card For A Diamond Ring? Well, I never did post about the couple of dates I went on with that gorgeous foreign guy, Lorenzo, and how he told me he was going to rape me. No, you didn’t misread that. He also stopped talking to me when I wouldn’t sleep with him. On our second date.
I’ll do things a bit backwards, seeing as how I just ran into him and my hands are shaking, and post the end of the story first.
I’m not a big drinker…at all. But when I know a date is going to be bad — and I can sense it within 5 minutes — the wine is ordered immediately. I drink it for two reasons: (1) To numb the pain of the torture I am about to withstand and (2) It makes a guy a little less obnoxious (or perhaps it makes me a little more obnoxious, either way, it’s a win/win).
This post is about my friend Lance. Last week, a girl he used to like but had gotten a boyfriend, Laila, called him and asked if he wanted to have sushi. He hates sushi, so he said, “Of course,” and met up with her (haha).
While they were there, he told Laila that they should have gone for Mexican food in the city, because they could be drinking margaritas. Within ten minutes, they were in a cab heading to a place he knew.
I have been seeing girl after girl get engaged — whether it be via Facebook, Youtube, or an email forward. Friends, family, strangers, everyone and their freaking divorced mother is getting engaged lately.
The best are these flash mobs that are attacking Youtube. Girls with boyfriends who love them so much that they convince their family and friends to dance like idiots in a syncronized manner to an awesome song like “Marry Me” by Train or “I Think I Wanna Marry You” by Bruno Mars. (Here are two of my faves because in one the guy, himself, dances & in the other it’s all the girls’ family and friends and she gets to sit!)
Even re-reading the title infuriates me. My friend Rob, who I’ve known for years, pissed me the eff off the other day when he basically told me that my bad love life is my own fault because it’s the universe’s way of getting back at me for “bashing” guys on JenAndMen.
First of all, I don’t bash anyone. I’m sorry that I let the world know when a guy treats me like shit, insults me, and makes me pay for dinner. I don’t even put the bastards’ real names for God’s sake. But it’s my bad KARMA?! Really?? Bad karma is dating nerds to laugh at them. What I have is a Goddamned CURSE.
Now, as far as dating for blog material — are you effing kidding me?! What kind of human being purposefully picks shitty guys to date just so they can write about it later on in the night. There are about 8.2 billion topics in Cosmo that I can look at and write about, I don’t need to subject myself to the torture I go through on a daily basis, thank you very much.
I think what upsets me the most is that the person who said this is someone I actually consider to be a friend, not a close friend, but a close nonetheless. And for a friend to think that of me — not even a stranger — just leaves me speechless and sad. I – WANT – A – BOYFRIEND. Any true JenAndMen reader or loved one knows that and knows I’d love nothing more than to write about other people’s screwed up loved lives and finally have a nice one of my own.
Read on to see our copy-and-pasted Facebook conversation…
I was talking to my friend Cindy the other day about a guy she’s been “talking to” for the past 6 months.
“Do you think you’ll ever be exclusive with him?” I asked.
“Honestly, probably not,” Cindy said, shrugging. “He has some issues that I’m not comfortable with and, to be honest, I’ve been down that road before in past relationships and Continue reading
Okay, so I told you about my Fashion’s Night Out incident with the South African. Here’s what occurred before that moment (and the reason I was drunk when I met him):
The moment we walked into Gucci, we knew we struck gold. Unlike other stores – who were giving away an ounce of champagne in paper cups – this place had waiters walking around in tuxedos, filling glasses of champagne for the customers. And that wasn’t even the best part – the waiters were actually models who were hired by Fashion’s Night Out coordinators to make the store more “appealing”. And appealing they were – I mean it was.
When I was in college I was friends with a guy, Marty, who had a sick foot fetish. I’ll never forget the first time I met him, in our Psychology class, and caught him staring at my flip-flopped feet.
“Maybe he’s gay and was admiring our footwear?” I asked my best friend, Kerry.
“No, I think he was admiring our feet,” she said, and we both shuddered. Then we completely forgot about it.
A few classes later, I was dying from a wicked headache, and he offered to walk down and get me some Advil. We were close ever since. Continue reading
My girlfriends and I went out a couple weeks ago for Fashion’s Night Out. If you don’t live in New York City, it’s basically a time when all fashionistas dress up in their chicest clothes to try and one-up the next girl (or gay guy). There are events all over the city, and champagne is given out in some of the high-end stores. It’s essentially the epitome of Fashion Week, when everyone who’s everyone comes in to the city to attend/coordinate all the fashion shows.
Anywho, by the end of the night, I was four glasses of champagne in and starrrrving. Luckily, we had made reservations at Tao, a fancy Asian restaurant that charges about $87 for a California roll. We made our way through the beautiful-people-filled streets and into the Tao foyer.
As I walked through the door, I received a text message from a friend of mine (who sceeves feet). I had sent him a picture of my outfit and he wrote back, “Very pretty, I hope you didn’t ruin it with open-toed shoes.” To show him I ‘hadn’t’, I held on to the door and began to take a picture of my foot.
There’s nothing worse than being sweet with a guy (or girl) and having him completely ruin the moment. Very rarely am I nice to anyone, so when I am, people better damn well appreciate it.
The other day I was talking to a guy about pie (random, I know, but he loves pie so whatever floats your boat, mister). We were saying that we were going to have a little pie date later in the week. He told me that his favorite kind was key lime pie (yuck!).
This post is not about dating. I’m skipping a day of ranting about the crazy guys I date to reflect on September 11, 2001.
Just like many middle-aged people say that they remember exactly what they were doing when JFK was shot, I’ll never forget the moment the World Trade Center was crashed into. I was 14 years old and it was my second day of high school.
Two of my friends, Lisa and Justin, have been going out for about four years. The guy is a huge pervert and the girl is a bit prudish. Anyway, he had mentioned to me that there was one girl she had admitted to wanting to have a threesome with (a mutual friend of ours who is semi-new to the group, Michelle).
One night we were all out drinking when Justin brought up threesomes. Then he did something that shocked me. HE ASKED MICHELLE TO HAVE ONE RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. And she denied him!!! I almost peed my pants.
A few years ago I worked as a waitress — a terrible, terrible waitress — and met a really cute guy on my very first day. He was the only one willing to help me without getting angry (I could only carry one dish at a time because I’m tiny) and I immediately began forming a crush on him. There was just one problem: He had a girlfriend for two and a half years.