the crouton cutter

I will never understand the extreme self-confidence that some guys have -- complete, bottom of the barrel douches, yet somehow think they are coolest things since IPods and worthy of really accomplished women. If I had a dollar for every time I got hit on by the biggest tool in the joint, I'd be able to pay my freakin credit card bill off.

I went on a date with one of these guys a few summers ago. I was at a local college bar with a girlfriend, and it was a typical Saturday night in a small town. We met a couple of guys and decided to strike up a conversation with them, nothing serious. As we were getting into our cars, one of the guys runs across the street to catch up with us, and asks for my phone number. I thought the move was cute, he almost got hit by a cop car to get my number. He was attractive enough, and our conversation was peppered with wit, so I figured why not.

We met up for drinks a few days later, and went through the basic profile information exchanged on every first date. I went first, and told him about my grandiose dreams of becoming a housewife, and how living at home was slowly crushing my spirit. Then it was his turn...

He told me how he was just "hanging out" for right now. Side note: Boys, just "hanging out" is NEVER A GOOD ANSWER. Make something up if you have to. Don't tell me you are living in your parents basement smoking pot all day, and drinking $2 pitchers all night, and expect me to be impressed. In college that would have been the coolest thing ever, but we're grown now. Get a job.

In my head, I'm like, ok maybe this kid graduated but hasn't found a job yet. Normal enough for post-grads. Not so, my friends. He was kicked out of COMMUNITY COLLEGE (not that I'm knocking community college, im just saying, if you have the money, they let you in) for getting into a fight on campus. Real prize winner. At this point, my manners were the only thing keeping me there. I asked him what he did during the day and he said he worked for Merrill Lynch. Pretty legit, or so I thought. Merrill is a reputable company, and it would be fine if he was even an assistant. I asked what he did specifically, and this is how the conversation went:

Me: So, what do you there?

Him: I work in the cafeteria. I make the croutons.

Me: Ha ha, wait, oh...what do you mean you make the croutons?

Him: Well everyday, I take the leftover bread and cut them into little cubes. Then I season them and bake them.

HE LITERALLY WAS THE GUY WHO CUTS CROUTONS. I was on a date with the man who makes the little toasted pieces of bread for your salad. I was on a date with The Crouton Cutter.



Needless to say, after that first encounter, I never saw him again.

so wrong...

With all the drama surrounding Chris Brown and Rihanna, domestic violence is a hot button topic these days. Even all the celebrities are chiming in, giving their opinions on a situation and relationship that they know nothing about, and I am about to do the same.

Now, I have been blessed to have never had to deal with domestic violence personally, but as a feisty female who has been in more bar fights than she cares to admit, some girls deserve to get hit. Don’t get me wrong, it is NEVER ok for a guy to hit a girl and I am in no way condoning domestic violence, but let’s be real. Sometimes, it’s not all the man’s fault. Again, I am only reflecting the views of one ignorant human being, but I refuse to believe all relationships are like those portrayed in the movies on Lifetime. You know the ones I am talking about- “I am a Closet Wife Beater, But You Have a Drug Problem, and Our Kid Has a Strain of Tourettes That Causes Him to Sleep with His Teachers.” (Don’t even act like you’ve never spent a lazy Sunday afternoon with chocolate covered pretzels with one of those on television.)

People I know in the “business” have said that Rihanna and Chris Brown have always had a very tumultuous, violent relationship. They were constantly bickering and scrapping with each other. I don’t think its fair to act like Chris Brown was the only person to blame. I’m sorry, if my significant other is biting and scratching me, I am for damn sure hitting him back, man or woman. And yes, he may have taken it too far (we’ve all seen the pictures), but I bet if we saw a picture of him post-incident, we’d probably see that Rihanna held her own in that matchup. Homegirl is Caribbean, and they are passionate, to put it lightly, on top of which she looks like she could beat the crap out of anybody she wanted to. I’m sure Chris had a few bumps and bruises of his own.

Back to my point – who’s to say that violent partnerships rest solely on the man’s shoulders? Has anybody ever watched the Bad Girls Club? I would bet my Marc Jacobs bag that every single one of those girls beat the shit out of their man at some point in their life. Let’s examine Mike Tyson and Robin Givens. You KNOW that Robin is not the kind of girl to sit down and meekly take a beating.

I’d bet my right leg that Tyson got that ear biting thing from Robin.




Note: Domestic violence is NOT a joke. The views above are an attempt to make light of an extremely serious situation. If you or someone you know is in a violent relationship, please visit www.domesticviolence.org for more information.

being a groupie requires Lara Croft-like skills

I was out for a friends birthday one Saturday night, at some random bar in the city. A few drinks at a bar to celebrate, and then I met up with some of my guy friends at swankier club. I hadn't eaten dinner, and we started early, so I was pretty drunk. Story of my life.

My friends and I are hanging out by the bar, and out of the corner of my eye I see a prominent NHL player partying in the VIP. I have recently started getting into the sport -- these guys skate around trying beat the crap out of each other for 2 hours, and you get to drink beer and eat all the hot dogs you want without being judged. Seriously, throw in a couple pieces of bacon, and cute guys sitting next to me buying my drinks, and it's like my dream world.

I sneak off from my friends and push my way past the guy guarding the VIP, who lets me in, no problem. I walk up to Mr. NHL and declare my undying love for him, how I think he's the most amazing hockey player I have ever seen (mind you, hes the only hocker play I know), and would he mind if I ran my hands through his faux-hawk? He tells me some garbage of how much he loves his fans, appreciates being bombarded, and then we proceed to make out at his table like our plane was going down.

My friends decide to leave me there -- ladies, never go out with just boys, they will leave your ass stranded in a heartbeat, if I had been with any of my girlfriends, this would have turned out totally different.

So we get into Mr. NHL's giant SUV, with a couple of other players from the team and a couple of girls, who I think I can safely assume were on the same mission I was on. We go back to his beautiful loft outside the city...I wasn't really paying attention to where we were going, for all I know we left the freakin' state.

You can't be an athlete without the cliched hot tub, and there it was. All the other girls strip down and jump in, but I hesitated. I couldn't for the life of me remember what kind of panties I had on, and when I took a peek, my worst nightmare came true. Granny panties.

I avoided the hot tub, and thus killed all chances of becoming Mr. NHL's one true love. I ended up passing out on the couch, and waking up at 5am still drunk. I couldn't recall where I was, or what in the name of God I was doing there.

I grabbed my things and ran out of the apartment, and couldn't figure out for the life of me how to get out. I swear, there was no goddamn entrance to that place. I was the rat in the maze that couldn't find the cheese at the end. I finally see daylight coming out of a door, and run through it.

It was the courtyard. The courtyard had no exit. I couldn't get in or out.

I proceed to climb a wrought-iron fence in my stilettos, rip my jeans, and fall in a mound of mulch on the other side. Walk to what looks like a highway, and stop a taxi, hooker-style. I didn't even dust myself off, the cab driver gave me the skankiest look I've ever gotten, and asked for the money up front.


The WORST walk of shame ever in the history of life. And I still have no clue where Mr. NHL's loft is.

stalking is not a good look on anyone

This is a story about Grey Suit, with whom I had a very brief, but passionate relationship. Grey Suit represents every guy you've ever met that is not really that good looking, or has that great of a personality, but walks around like the big man on campus. The kind of guy that gets so much ass it just doesn't even make sense, but you can't really figure out how or why. It's like the ripple effect, everyone else wants to hit it, and then you start falling for his antics too. Grey Suit is a promoter in the city, and promoters in this area are like rock stars. Girls literally throw their panties at them (I swear I saw it happen once), and for what? Because they get to hold the clipboard and wristbands?? 

Anyway, I met Grey Suit on a random night out. He was throwing a party at a club, and my friend was in love with his promoter partner, White Hat (really clever names, I know), who we were trying to accidentally-on-purpose run into. I spotted him from across the room, and it was love at first sight. Well, for me... He was wearing this beautifully tailored 3-piece grey suit. I swear, I've never seen a person look better in a suit. God, that suit...

He was a social butterfly, and clearly knew everyone that was there that night. We locked eyes a few times, and I made sure to throw my head back and laugh every time he looked my way. Promoters have to stay until the end of the party, and by the end of the night, I had imbibed a few drinks, and was feeling pretty loosey goosey. The quest to run into White Hat failed, so my friend was itching to go. There was no way I could leave without some sort of contact, so the next time he passed us by, I ran up to him and jumped on him. Yes, that's correct, I JUMPED INTO HIS ARMS. 

As if that wasn't embarrassing enough, I asked him why he had been avoiding me all night, grabbed my friend, and then ran into the night like a bandit. No name, no number, nada. I was like Catwoman, except a lot less sexy and a lot more lame. 

A few days later, after extensive Facebook stalking, I happened to run across his profile. He had 37894749735430 friends, so I figured it wasn't a huge deal if I requested him as a friend as well. After consulting numerous friends about the situation, and then writing and re-writing a message to him, I sent him a friend request with the following message-

Me:

Sorry for the hit and run Friday night, I blame all the extra oxygen they pump into the clubs. 

And his response 3 agonizing days later - 

Grey Suit:

im sorry, what?

HE DIDN'T REMEMBER ME AT ALL! So what, girls jump into his arms all the time? I thought I had at the very least made an impression on the guy, but apparently not even a little bit. I may or may not have cried, but I managed to spit out a response -

Me:

it's probably better for me that you don't remember, but i may have jumped on you at some point friday night. 

Grey Suit:

lol, really??

What is it with you guys? Clearly, I'm laying my heart out on the line here, and I'm getting one word responses back. Would a little effort kill you???

After days of witty banter, we finally ended up exchanging phone numbers, and I would get these texts from him every day, about parties that he was throwing. The first couple times it happened, I thought it was a special invite just for me, and I forced my friend to go out HARD on a Monday night. That's a mistake you only make once. I have never been so suicidal at a client meeting.

After a couple weeks of trying to get him to ask me out, and him ignoring me completely, I started for real stalking him. I'd be at every party he was throwing, and if I saw he was attending an event on Facebook, I'd make sure to invite myself and show up there too. I'd read his profile every couple of hours, and compare myself to the girls that were writing on his wall. I got my friends involved too. Grey Suit went to school with my friend's classmate, so I interrogated her for information too. The more he ignored me, the more I wanted him.  

One night, after copious amounts of alcohol (funny how that always seems to happen...), I somehow managed to convince him to come over my apartment. I was like Terrell Owens, doing a touchdown dance in the middle of my living room. He was FINALLY coming over, we'd spend an incredible weekend together, and then we'd live happily ever after.  

He came over, and we spent a few awkward moments on the couch. We small talk about our respective nights, and I'm getting antsy. I've basically spearheaded everything up until now, so I figure he'll make the first move. Suddenly, he pulls out his phone and this giant smile appears on his face.

"There's an emergency at the club, I gotta run. Sorry!" 

Are you freakin' kidding me??? What emergency is there at 4am when all the bars are already closed??? I was absolutely dumbfounded. Grey Suit got a call from another girl, weighed his options, and found in her favor. I never heard from the guy again, and there are at least 4 clubs in the city I will never step foot in. 

I got my revenge though. I un-friended him on Facebook. 

4 sapphire martinis on a first date are 4 too many

Date #2:

Date #2 was a shitshow from the jump. Although looking back, I really only have myself to blame...and the 4 dirty sapphire martinis I decided to down. 

He was a really nice guy, and after my first Match.com disaster, I was a little gun-shy. The conversation was flowing (as was the wine), no awkward pauses, and he paid for dinner. Already this was a million times better than my first date. We decided to go out after dinner, and ended up at a crowded club where my date's friend was throwing a party. The music was good, I was having a good hair day, and conversationally its like we were soulmates. It was like that scene from The Sweetest Thing, where Christina Applegate meets that guy at the bar, and they are coyly flirting with each other. "What's going on with you?" "Nothing, what's going on with you?" and back and forth until they have their tongues so far down each other's throat you can basically see them coming out of the other's ass --- but in a cute, classy way obviously. 

 

I was in the middle of my third or fourth hair flip, when I see a previous suitor spot me and head my way. A little background info - we went out once, had a good time, and then I blew him off because he was on his way to law school on the other side of the country.  Needless to say, he was really the last person I wanted to run into while on a date with a potential life mate.

Now I'm not so arrogant to think that Law School Guy was spending his nights pining away for me, and would make a scene in front of my obvious new beau, but I quickly saw that it would be hard to explain our brief relationship to Date #2, and even more relevant, just plain awkward for me.

Law School Guy came over and cordially said hello, and I just as cordially introduced Date #2 and I thought (and prayed with all my heart) that would be the end of it. After a little polite chitchat, I made some banal remark to mark the end of the conversation when all of a sudden Date #2 and Law School Guy realize they have mutual friends. Pretty soon, they are talking about common interests, and before I know it a full-on bromance is forming between them. These guys wanted to become friends! I flip my hair and make some witty comment to try and end this obvious train wreck, but no one notices how uncomfortable I clearly am. So I sit at the bar and manage to inhale 4 dirty sapphire martinis while Date #2 and Law School Guy make plans to play basketball the following weekend. FANATSTIC. 

FINALLY, I convince Date #2 that his new best friend will be ok with out him, and we leave the club. At this point the wine and gin have gone straight to my head and I am obnoxiously drunk. And had I been in a less hazy state of mind, I would have realized that with every annoying comment I make, Date #2 is falling more and more out of love with me. I had to do something to keep him interested, and I had to do something quick. We were walking by a strip club, and somehow the thought crosses my mind that if I can only convince Date#2 to go in there, everything would be ok, and we'd be back on the path to lifetime bliss once again. 

This shouldn't be hard, right? Strip club, straight man...I shouldn't have had to work as hard as I did to convince this guy to go in. Apparently, Date #2 had morals and values, and strip clubs "weren't his thing." Well, I was going in with him or without at that point. I had made such a big stink about how amazing strip clubs were, that there was no backing down now. So I make my way to the top of the stairs, where the nice bouncer tells me I am way too drunk and there's no way in hell I am going in. I am so belligerent at this point that I don't realize the love of my life aka Date #2 is getting disgusted with me and is about to leave. I try to stop him, but instead fall down a flight of concrete steps outside the strip club. Now, I am not one of the girls that falls gracefully. My ass TUMBLED down this flight of stairs, and in the process I manage to rip my tights, boots, and literally leave a chunk of my leg and a couple liters of my blood on the sidewalk. 

Date #2 leaves. I still have the scar. 

Match.com and why you should ALWAYS talk on the phone first

My life is ridiculous. Add lighting and a laugh track, and you've got the perfect setup for a 30 minute situational comedy, complete with well-placed product placement. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like Tine Fey isn't going to throw a show my way any time soon, so I figured I'd need a more public (and free) medium to share my life stories. 

{Please imagine laugh track and opening credit soundtrack.}

I'm a complete tool when it comes to dating. Well, that's an overstatement. I don't really "date" per se, I usually stalk men and somehow end up in awkward situations avoiding them for the rest of my life.

There are these women who just have a knack for dating -- these perfect Pantene-haired  girls, who at any given moment can list their hobbies, qualities they seek in a life partner, and 1 idiotic yet somehow still humorously cute anecdote about the time they drank too much during that rush party and ended up with a warning from campus security. I abhor these women. These are the same women that complain that there are no good men left in the city, but always happen to have a standing date on Saturday nights. These women eat at every restaurant in the city, but haven't paid for a meal since 1999. 

On the surface, I hate women like this, but let's be real ---I'm just jealous. I am NOT one these women. I am the exact opposite of these women. 

Last year for Christmas, my mother got me a trial subscription to Match.com. Fed up with my bitching and moaning about being involuntarily celibate, this seemed like a good solution to her, and at the time, to me. I appreciated the gesture, but never in the history of online dating has there ever been such a disaster. I only went on two dates --seriously, what are the odds that 2 consecutive dates would end so badly??

Date #1: 

The first few days on Match are like a high. Millions of cute, single guys, all in your city; the possibility of romance and true love just around the corner. You wake up every morning with a smile on your face, eager to check your account to see if any new prospects winked at you. If for nothing else, I'd recommend signing up for Match for the self-esteem boost alone. 

But like any other drug, the high wears off and you start to come down. You realize that Match is just as bad as the real world, except in the real world, what you see is what you get. Even I look like Gisele in dim lighting, professionally done makeup and windblown hair, and my famous photographer who happens to also be my uncle taking glamour shots. 

After a few days of perusing profiles, I stumbled across one that intrigued me. The guy was seriously cute, tall, rich -- everything I was looking for in a potential mate. So I said a quick Hail Mary and winked at him. He didn't respond immediately -- gave me just enough time to drive myself crazy and fall completely in love with him. I was convinced that if he met me once, he'd instantly fall head over heels for me. We were going to live in the suburbs, and I'd be his brown Stepford wife with lots and lots of babies. 

All of his responses to my carefully thought out, witty remarks were curt, which I didn't think too much about at the time. I figured like every other douchebag man, he was just playing hard to get. After a few days of emailing back and forth, we made plans to meet at a local sushi restaurant for happy hour. 

I arrived first, giving myself plenty of time to down a couple drinks to calm the nerves. My back was toward the entrance, and I heard a guy come and and ask the hostess for me. I got up and turned to meet him, and instead of my cute, tall guy, there was this average looking, short and squaty thing in plaid that reeked of Drakkar Noir and used way too much product on his slicked back hair. He beamed at me, held out his hand, and said in the thickest, fobbiest accent imaginable "Hai! Are you Vicky?"

He proceeded to tell me about childhood, growing up in India, his green card status etc. I was stuffing my face with spicy tuna so as to avoid any conversation at all. By the grace of God, I forgot to turn off my phone, and it started vibrating. It was my mother, calling to remind me to be polite and submissive on my date, like a good Indian girl should. I turned to my date and started to pack my belongings, claiming it was my boss and I had to run back to work to put out a fire. He didn't really seem to realize I was totally blowing him off, so he brought called for the check, and asked me how much I wanted to put in. At that point I didn't even care enough to be offended, so I hastily threw down a $20 and ran out of there, never looking back once. 

A few days later, he asked me out to a comedy show. I declined, politely, stating some lame "its not you, its me" excuse. He responded with this gem:

Actually yeah it probably wouldn't have worked out, its just too bad, but I didnt find you attractive.

-Aryan aka Fobby Fuckface

Moral of the story: It is imperative, and I cannot stress this enough, to make sure you call the guy before you go out with him at least once.