There’s a fine line between metrosexuals and homosexuals but it’s really not clear through the interchange of emails or between instant chat texts. You really have to meet someone face to face to find out their true colors – and exactly how many fabulous colors their personality is a propos.

“B” seemed like a regular guy at first except for the fact that he mentioned that he completely loathes sports and admitted to having a secret soft spot for the Jerry Springer Show because “you never know what kind of kooky people will be on it.”

Right there I should have raised a warning rainbow flag – what straight male uses the word “kooky” in reference to what is clearly “redneck” and “white trash” folks appearing on a depraved talk show? I could almost hear him giggle at the utterance of “kooky” behind his computer screen. On an aside, to be fair, the word “kooky” might only subjectively rub me the wrong way and sound flamboyant to my ears in its reminding me of the pet name my gay friend Joe uses for something that comes out of his ass but I regress from the topic at hand.

Admittedly, it was “B’s” fondness for Jerry Springer that drew me to him. I completely understood his fascination with the hicks I love watching on the show too. I love the freaks and lowlifes that strut the stage as if there’s nothing wrong with incest or being a KKK leader. I love how you’re guaranteed to see someone expose themselves in a fit of passion and excitement, as if they can’t help but be so revved up on national TV.

Based on our mutual reverence for a crass daytime talk show TV parading the scum of society, I figured we’d have a lot to talk about in person so I put on the pants in our non-existent relationship, adopted a pair of balls and gathered up the courage to ask “B” out.

He suggested a wine bar in Chelsea. Wine was fine with me so I agreed. Days later, I went to meet him at his “favorite” bar. When I walked in, it was hard to figure out who “B” was because I was the only girl in there. And it didn’t help that no man looked my way so I couldn’t really make eye contact with anyone I even thought might possibly be “B”.

“Great,” I thought to myself. “This isn’t uncomfortable in the least bit.” Scanning the room, the only single guy I could see was seated on a stool at the bar which made me think this was who I came to meet. I made a beeline toward him, and then standing beside him, tilted my head to get a better frontal look and realized this was not “B”. To my horror, the guy spoke loud enough to embarrass me, “Excuse me? Do I know you?”

Just then, in the knick of time, I heard someone sing my name behind me. “Hello, helloooo!” A voice said, approaching. Then I see a man skipping. Waving his arm in the air, it was painfully clear, he was gay and I was in a gay bar with a gay man who had drawn me into the depths of his closeted cellar. “Well throw me a friggin’ corkscrew,” I thought to myself with disdain.

“B!” I leaped up and greeted him in return trying to parlay as sincere a smile as I could. “It’s…. You!” I stumbled for words which was proving more difficult as my eyes scanned his outfit. His attire, Ryan Seacrest would revere. His shirt was far tighter and his designer jeans much skinnier than mine. His skin glowed of self-tanner and I could swear I smelled exotic flowers in my midst. The ultimate clincher and deal breaker was a pinky ring glistening in the light that pretty much solidified I was brought here to be this guy’s beard.

While he chattered away about Liberace knows what, I rationalized to myself how I’ve been in plenty of scenarios  I didn’t want to be in and have always come out on top – okay, poor wording in this case but anyway. So I ordered a Pinot Noir, following “B’s” highly endorsed lead. We clinked glasses and toasted to the discomfort of JDate and the whole protocol behind meeting someone online and then face-to-face. Then “B” began motor-mouthing with stories about his recent trip to Europe. This continued into a tirade on how, in his opinion, guys in America dress like vagrants whereas Italians have flair.

This invoked a deep internal debate for me. Could “B” just be emanating Euro-flair with attire I only perceived as gay? Or was he really and truly gay but not yet out of the closet?

I decided, I have no fucking clue. I’ve never had such a hard time telling or not telling if someone was gay. This forced me to concur that there’s no clear cut between what Americans call “metrosexual” these days and what is conceivably, strictly homosexual. Given that conclusion, the only thing I could think of doing to clarify “B’s” sexual orientation was to flat out ask him one question.

“How did things end with your ex-girlfriend?” I probed.

He seemed to have slight trouble swallowing his wine as if I was coming straight out of left field. After clearing his throat, he replied with a question, “Which ex-girlfriend?”

“Your most recent one, I guess,” I continued, firm, waiting for an answer.

“She cheated on me,” he shrugged and looked deep in his wine glass.

“How long were you two together?” I further inquired.

“Two months,” he bit his lower lip and looked away, as if he wasn’t interested in having this conversation but too bad because I was.

“I’m sorry,” I sympathized. “Where did you meet her?”

“On JDate,” he responded.

I was really curious now. This was getting interesting. “So how many dates did you go on before you established you two were an item?”

“What do you mean? We were like, dating for two months in total,” he said, defensive. “I mean, I wasn’t dating anyone else at the time. And she just like one day told me she doesn’t want to see me anymore because she met someone else.” He paused. And then continued, “To be honest, it’s for the best. We’re total opposites. Turns out, she lied on her profile and saying likes art and foreign films but I think she just did it to look smart.”

Uh huh.

It was becoming clear to me now. This guy was a serial beard-hunter. Truthfully, I felt bad for him. I wanted to hug him and tell him it’s okay to be gay. Instead, I did what any good beard would do. I changed topics.

“So what do you think of yesterday’s Jerry Springer Show? The transsexual couple who adopted a baby from Vietnam?” I asked.

“Oh. My. God!!!” he accentuated each syllable and squeaked. “So wrong. But then again, so amazing! Like, look at the world we live in!”

We ordered another glass and continued to talk in hushed voices about the déclassé subject matter.

As I got progressively tipsier, I couldn’t help but spew, “Hey B. What’s with the pinky ring?”

He chuckled and covered his mouth like a schoolgirl. “I know. You think it’s gay, right?”

“You don’t say,” I joked, sarcastic.

We both laughed. “B” put his head on my shoulder as if we we’ve been friends forever. And I was totally cool with that. I dug him as a person. Because of that, I didn’t want to bug him anymore about his sexuality. Whatever he was, was fine with me.

A month later, after we’d hung out as just friends a few times, without any conversation about romantic possibilities ever arising between us, “B” came out of the closet. I was the first person he told. He expected me to be a little more shocked and when I wasn’t, he wondered why not.

I tapped my pinky finger on his knee, playfully and smiled. At that, we both laughed.

“Really?” he asked. “Is that what gave it away?”

“That’s not the only thing…”

There was a moment of comfortable, all-knowing silence between us as we sipped our lattes in Central Park that afternoon.

But secretly, I couldn’t help but resent him for being gay. If only he were straight, we’d be a perfect couple. But isn’t that the old common adage? The best ones are always gay? I wonder who said it first and why did they jinx the rest of us with that statement?

Whitney is the type of girl who likes to have a good time. Never one to shy away from a hot after party on the weekend, she’s the type of girl that regards two cocktails with dinner as a mandatory daily ritual rather than an aperitif after a long day’s work. She filled me in on this quirky side to her personality at a hip spot on the Upper West Side, all the while insisting I do just one shot of Goldschlager with her.

It thus shouldn’t come as a surprise that Whitney got completely wrecked on our Wednesday after-work date. And “completely wrecked” is actually an understatement. “Trashed” more accurately defines the state of having to carry a stone-cold passed-out stranger of a girl home.

People in the street eyed me with scrutiny as I walked by with this young woman draped over my shoulder, trying to hail a cab with my free hand. One cabbie refused to take us. “I don’t want any puke inside my vehicle,” the East Indian man so brashly disregarded us. Another cab driver insisted I pay him double for the trouble of having him help me get this girl into the back seat. I agreed without any argument. Anything to get out of public view with waste case Whitney.

On the drive back to her apartment, Whitney mumbled a series of incomprehensible mutterings, all of which led me to believe she felt some kind of remorse for her alcoholic display. That’s nice and all but I’m not one to sympathize with those who could easily subscribe to AA meetings and be done with their demons. “It was the whiskey after the Goldschlager, I swear. I don’t normally get this tipsy,” she slurred. Tipsy? Is that what she thinks she was? I wanted to tell her she surpassed tipsy about four drinks ago but instead I said, “That’s okay, go to sleep.” Then, I pet her head to get her to shut up but if she thought I was consoling her, that was fine too.

When we arrived at her apartment, she asked me to come up with her. Most guys would welcome the opportunity to bone a chick who won’t remember it the next day but I pride myself on my technique and actually want to be remembered the next day. Furthermore, I’m not like the average guy who’s just out for sex and maybe this is why this particular date with Whitney was so eye-opening for me.

If I just wanted sex, then why bother going to the trouble of meeting someone over dinner and drinks which could potentially run me the same cost of hiring someone to suck my cock? I’m looking for the right girl and let me tell you, it’s fucking tough.

On the one hand, I can understand Whitney’s desire have a drink or two. There’s a lot of pressure on first dates. She was a little uptight and wanted to make a good impression. At least that’s what I thought at first until I discovered she’s a severe alcoholic. Generally speaking however, when it comes to other girls who don’t have a similar drinking problem and who opt to have a drink or two on a date to loosen up, I understand how a stiff cocktail can come in handy. It helps them relax. Or in Whitney’s case, go ape-wild.

To tell you the truth, I prefer going out with a girl who has likes to share a couple drinks with me rather than the ones who stick to virgin cocktails. They’re the ones you really have to worry about. If they control themselves so much that they can’t step outside their element to get a mild buzz going on, imagine the type of control they’d exercise on me, given the opportunity. No thank you. I already have a mom who tells me what to do and what’s right, when and where and how and whatnot.

Whitney phoned me the next day as if there was nothing wrong and asked me if I thought she was pretty. Did I think she was pretty? “Sure,” I said. “Why do you ask?” She replied, “Because I remember asking you to, you know, come upstairs to my place last night and you didn’t want to. So I just wanted to know if you think there’s something wrong with me.”

Diplomacy has never been a strong trait of mine and beating around the bush always seems like a waste of time before the inevitable truth comes out so I just flat out asked her, “Do you realize you’re a raging alcoholic?” Quick on the defensive which is so typical of alcoholics from what I gather on all the TV shows and movies that portray alcoholics as always denying they have a problem, she responded, “Are you joking? Drinking problem? I don’t think so. Not me.” Instead of arguing with her which I thought was futile, I wanted off the phone with her fast so I said. “You’re right. It’s not you. It’s me.” And I hung up. Just like that.

I mean, had I known her for an extended period of time, I probably would have cared more about her general well-being but having just met her for a few hours, I didn’t feel I needed the responsibility of having an alcoholic acquaintance. I know it might sound rude but I’m just being honest. And can you really blame me for feeling this way?

Nothing about the world wide web should come as a surprise anymore. Porn is abundant. You can shop for anything your heart desires, 24/7. There are infinite opinions on millions of topics, catering to every whim.

When it comes to online dating, a person whose online profile picture doesn’t match up in real life has become the norm. A polite, considerate first-time chat on the ‘net eventually leads to a rude person in the flesh. Men lie about their height. Women lie about their weight. Everyone lies about their financial status, past relationships, sexual history and whatnot. What you see is almost never what you get. And I say “almost never” only because I believe there’s an anomaly for everything. Consequently, I’m still waiting to find that anomaly. But until that day, I have to trust that every experience along the way is just one step closer to that person I want to spend the rest of my life with. I have no choice but to have full faith the next person will be nothing like the last. Even if my gut instinct warns me otherwise, at the very least, I’ve got to give the present guy at question a chance.

When “David’s” profile seemed to be a great match for me at face value, I sent him a little “poke” to pique his interest. Instantly, he replied, “I poke you back” and I smiled because we were off to a great flirtatious start. “I poke you harder”, I added fuel to the fire. “I’ll show you poking harder,” he replied. This was funny to me and I felt safe laughing behind the comfort of our invisible internet wall, separating us geographically. In real life I might have started getting a little nervous and looking over my shoulder to assure myself we were still in public, surrounded by witnesses should he attempt to “poke me” in any sort of physical capacity.

After a series of poking back and forth, “David” suggested we move over to Skype and have a webcam chat instead of typing incessantly. I’d never moved so quickly from conversing in a chat window to a face-to-face webcam meeting but I figured it would save me the stress of picking a first-date outfit and coming home disappointed if the date didn’t turn out as I’d hoped. “Let’s webcam chat,” I agreed.

I logged into Skype and immediately, within a millisecond, “David” was calling. I didn’t even have a chance to ensure that my hair was in place or whether I looked half-decent. Caught off guard, I had no choice but to click “ok” and accept his webcam call, all the while fumbling through my purse to find my compact mirror so I could fix myself up.

“Hello,” I heard a male voice say through the computer. Still not looking at my laptop screen, instead staring into my compact mirror coiffing my bangs I yelled over my shoulder, “Hold on, I’m just fixing my hair!” “Take your time,” he said in a droned-out, almost moaning voice.

I put my compact back in my purse and finally looked at the computer. Now, what do you think I saw? I can tell you exactly what he saw. A dropped jaw and look horror on my face. But me? Well, I was staring at a pair of cock and balls, close-up.

“Oh my God!” I thought aloud. “What are you doing?” I screamed. “What, you don’t like my dick?” He asked. I don’t know what shocked me more. The fact that I was staring at him stroking his penis or that he wanted to know if I liked it.

I instantly closed the webcam window, holding onto my dear beating heart to console it. And then, “David” had the further indecency to phone back. I didn’t answer, still trying to catch my breath and calm my pulse rate. Then I got a chat message pop up from him saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Thinking clearly? I wondered if he had any premeditative thoughts at all. Thinking clearly. Clearly he didn’t even think twice about pulling that strip show on me beforehand when he went ahead with his naked plan.

And I was unforgiving and unwilling to converse with him any further. It’s not like he could use the old “drunk excuse” to excuse his behavior. It’s not like he could say, “Sorry I was drunk a minute ago when I acted impulsively. But now I’m normal.” Nothing could excuse what he did.

Sure, we live in a time where modern technology often overrides our senses of boundaries but there’s no excuse for acting like a criminal. Just because the inkling to flash someone online feels safer than doing so in real life doesn’t mean it’s okay for people like “David” to cross standard, ethical boundaries. Yet, people seem to cross them more freely and frequently than ever before. They do so because it’s easy to disappear into the enigmatic vortex of cyberspace and never be seen or thought of again by the person whom they just violated.

It’s precisely the “invisible internet wall” that allows us to say and do things we wouldn’t in normal, ordinary life. We get cockier, more confident and sometimes more reckless with our modes of conduct. It’s easy to forget the real world exists beyond the “invisible wall” and we act out of line. And some of us act more out of line than others.

Yes, “David”, I’m talking to you. Wherever you are, please reconsider your future actions. For the sake of other women you hope to meet online, please put your pants back on.

I love to talk. I could go on and on. And I often do. But I usually only pull that kind of self-involved behavior with my closest friends who consequently happen to be the very same ones to shut me up when I’ve overstepped the acceptable amount of “talking about me” time. Far be it for me to complain about someone else monopolizing a conversation for once. Which is why I finally met my match with this guy “Ramblin’ Ron”. Not only did I barely get two words in edgewise for the duration of our coffee date but up until today, for the life of me, I can’t remember a single thing “Ron” said because he talked way too much about too many things. Esoteric, scholarly things. Basically our whole conversation thus remains a giant, hazy glaze in the depths of my lesser fond memories.

It could have been the caffeine making him drivel on incessantly or perhaps he was just over-excited about a million subjects all at once. Or, maybe he’s just socially-awkward and couldn’t care less about anything but himself. Either way, it was a painful rendezvous and as much as I’ve tried to block it out of my mind, this is the best I can come up with in attempts at replicating what transpired that afternoon in the Coffee Bean.

I should have known when he told me to “Look out for the guy reading Atlas Shrugged”, I’d be in for meeting a pretentious literary snob. At first I thought it was impressive for him to take on the acclaimed philosophical sci-fi novel on his own volition but then I realized he only did it as a means for self-aggrandizement, a reason to tout himself superior intellectually and mainly, because he’s one boring human being.

ME: You must be Ron.

RON: (puts down his book and smiles, smug.) How did you guess?

ME: The book. You told me you’d be reading Atlas Shrugged, remember?

RON: Oh, that’s right… I did. Have you ever read it?

ME: No. I haven’t. (Noticing his half-drunken coffee, I remain standing). You already have a drink. I’m going to get a coffee. I’ll be right back.

RON: That’s fine. Take your time. I’m at a crux point in this chapter that’s absolutely compelling…

At this point, I go get my coffee and return to find him consumed, reading.

ME: Do you want to just forge this whole meeting? I mean, you’re obviously busy reading and I could just go. That’s fine…

RON: Oh, no. No, no. I’m just… I need a sounding board for something. Please, sit. (I sit). See, I’m having this inner debate after reading this book and I wonder what you think about this theory that’s bugging me. It’s kind of abstract but I think I can explain it really well. So, the premise of this book is based upon objective ethics. Do you know anything about objective ethics?

ME: (I sigh). A little…

RON: I’ve always thought that there is such a thing as an objective truth. But then, the sum of objectivity’s parts is subjectivity, in each one of us, right? Which makes me wonder, as I read a book based on objectivity, could I possibly be soaking up the same principles that Ayn Rand insinuated when she was writing her book? Or am I interpreting her words in a completely different manner? Now, I came to the conclusion that it’s all an oxymoron, the whole notion of universality. To me, it’s a big hoax. And I wonder, what you think of this dilemma?

ME: You mean, if we’re both drinking coffee, do we taste the same thing? That sort of objectivity versus subjectivity dilemma? (I try to cover up my yawn).

RON: No. Not at all. Have you ever even taken a philosophy class?

ME: Yes and I didn’t like it because it’s all about arguing for no reason.

RON: It’s not like that at all. It’s about expanding the mind and finding ways to think about things in different lights. Not being so close-minded.

ME: (Insulted) Are you calling me closed-minded?

RON: I don’t know you yet so I can’t really judge. But I can tell you that I used to be very straight and narrow. I only saw things one way. And now I see things in all kinds of enlightened ways because I’m open to it.

ME: How about being open to the fact that you don’t even know me and here you are, talking about all kinds of book-based bullshit trying to show off your knowledge that no one who isn’t a philosophy major cares about?

RON: Wow. I wouldn’t have expected this from your profile. You portrayed yourself as someone who’s well-read and you’re obviously not interested in any sort of intellectual conversation. You girls are all alike. You go online and present yourself as being educated and erudite but really all you’re interested in is shopping and gossiping. I wonder, why bother even having gone to school if you’re not cerebrally-invigorated by the chance at having an intellectual conversation with another person?

ME: Actually I’m trying to have a conversation here but —

RON: (interrupts me) – But you’re not interested in anything literary. Remind me, what did you get your degree in again?

ME: Fine art.

RON: Now I remember. So what’s your favorite era?

ME: Postmodern.

RON: (Appearing displeased) Really? I think postmodern is okay but it pales in comparison to the impressionists. It’s much easier to create anew than it is to accurately depict something in its authenticity.

ME: I don’t think so at all but –

RON: (interrupts me again) –That’s why I think both jazz and blues is a waste of music. You can’t annotate that kind of freestyle on paper properly. Whereas classical music, in all its complexity can be played over and over again, handed down through the ages with sheet music.

ME: I really don’t agree with you at all. With anything you said actually.

RON: Not many people do. I’m a provocative thinker. I say things people don’t want to say or think about. But I say the truth. And the truth isn’t always innocuous but at least, it’s the truth. And —

ME: (interrupting Ron) – You know what I think?

RON: Excuse me but you just interrupted me. That’s really rude.

ME: (shocked). Excuse me but you think I’m being rude? Me? What about you, Mr. let’s talk about everything I want to talk about and I’m the only one allowed to talk in this conversation? Talk about subjectivity. Hmmpf!

RON: You’re making me lose my train of thought here…

ME: (standing up). You just lost more than your train of thought here. You also just lost a date, buddy. Why don’t you sit and have a conversation with your book and bore it to death? I’m out of here. See ya.

And with that, I left Ramblin’ Ron and his rambunctious thoughts behind. Walking away, for several city blocks,  I swear I could still hear Ron talking and talking and talking. And talking.

When I got home, I called up my best friend and told her about the situation and she couldn’t stop laughing. “Now you know how it feels,” she said. And for once, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t argue.

Do you think the universe was trying to teach me a lesson about monopolizing conversations with people in general so I wouldn’t repeat that type of rude social manner in the future or was this guy just a narcissistic douche bag altogether?

DINNER

PRO: You could (quite possibly) get a free meal.

CON: If you know you don’t like the guy by the time appetizers arrive, you’re stuck with him for the long haul, forcing very forced conversation. Add to that, a sense of guilt when the check comes and your conscience tells you to split the bill but your recession-minded frugal nature lets him cater to his sense of manhood when he insists on paying.

MOVIE

PRO: A night out at the movies is always fun – even if the movie sucks. Secondly, if you don’t like the guy within a few moments of meeting, you don’t have to talk much throughout the rest of the date.

CON: If you like the guy, it’s pretty hard to talk at the movies, especially when the guy behind you repeatedly tells you two to, “Shut the fuck up!”

COFFEE

PRO: Even when you meet up with a friend you haven’t see in a while, “coffee” implies a short rendezvous to get the catching up essential out of the way. Meeting a date for “coffee” is similarly, a lighthearted encounter where you basically have until you finish your cup to part ways.

CON: Sometimes meeting a person for the first time requires that additional kick you can only get from a stiff cocktail. You’re uptight and caffeine only amplifies that. Another no-no is, if you do coffee at your local haunt, you risk running into people you know. The baristas may think you’re a total slut or perhaps accidentally blow your cover and inform your new date you’re a girl about town when they inquire, “Weren’t you here an hour ago with another guy?” Rule of thumb is to choose your coffee shops wisely – that’s the way around this con.

WALK AROUND TOWN

PRO: If the date sucks, you get to window shop for the afternoon. Furthermore, you get to check out what kind of guy you’re on a date with. What kind of stores does he like? What’s his general style – not just how he presents himself at face value upon meeting.

CON: If the dude turns out ugly, that’s the man on your arm for the hour.

NIGHT CLUB:

PRO: What can go wrong at a night club when there’s loud music playing, you’re dancing and dressed your best? Plus a few martinis doesn’t hurt.

CON: If he dances like a dork and dresses like a dork, then you’re out with a dork. Even worse, that dork may want to grind against you like a brick of Parmesan against a cheese grater.

What are some of your most and least favorite first date spots?

NICE JEWISH BOYS
This is a user submission from Janice Schulman. The excerpt is from an animated short that explores dating as seen through the eyes of a modern Jewish woman.

With so much cross-gentrification and intermarriage going on everywhere, it’s hard to tell who’s Jewish and who isn’t just by looking. Sure, there’s the obvious curly head of hair commonly known as the “Jew-fro” or the stereotypical big nose (not so tenderly referred as the “Jew-nose”). Today, the most unobvious people you think aren’t Jews, end up being Jews. Conversely, it’s the ones you’re absolutely, positive have zero Jewish blood in them turn out to be Jews in the flesh – or in the case of males, right down to their missing piece of flesh called foreskin.

More so today than ever, there are Asian-looking members of the tribe, black ones, Sephardic mixed with Ashkenazi type mulattos, you name it, they just might be a Jew. As it seems, we’re as diverse and colorful a religion as Christianity but alas, Jewish underneath.

Much in the way a truly devout Catholic would want to marry a Catholic or an Arab would want to marry another Arab, it’s not a completely unheard of concept for a Jew (like myself) to want to wed another Jew. Like the saying goes, “birds of a feather, stick together.” Now, far be it for me to deduce a reason as to why “birds of a feather stick together”. Let’s face it – everyone has their own explanation for why religion is important to them. Personally, for me it’s about being guaranteed a circumcised penis, someone who recognizes why a glass of milk alongside an Angus steak is a no-no and finding someone who speaks enough basic Yiddish to make me laugh. But I digress. It’s not just about me here.

When any Jew (like myself) signs up to meet a mate on JDate, they should expect to meet another Jew, right? Clearly, this is the same line of reasoning followed by a black person who posts their profile on Blackplanet.com – they’re out looking for some African American love. It’s a pretty straight forward anticipation that should be a sanction, really. Given the fact that enlisting in any particular dating service involves forking over cash, this precise transaction is done under the auspice that the type of person one is looking for has been filtered down. Otherwise, for me, if dating were a free-for-all, why wouldn’t I just go out and meet any old random non-Jews at the bar or laundromat or wherever?

The real kicker is this: there are so many free dating websites out there like PlentyOfFish or OkCupid and so forth. If I wanted to meet just anyone, religion aside, I’d be all over that free shit – after all, I am a Jew. But in order to find a Jew to love and marry, I had to pay for it. Therefore, after paying for it, I plan to date, meet and marry another Jew, no question about it.

So when “Chris” portrayed himself on JDate as a “reform” Jew who “never practices”, I thought to myself, “Hey, I prefer a guy with somewhat of a bigger attachment to Jewish practices and at the very least, someone who observes the high holidays but maybe if he were around someone like me, he’d find a reason to get into Judaism a little more.”

This theory of mine would work splendidly if “Chris” were in fact a Jew, but no. As the first five letters of his name indicate, “Chris” is Christian. He’s a “liberal Christian” as he explained to me on our web chat and he’s “someone who doesn’t really care about religion all that much.”

Naturally my question to him was this: “If you don’t care about religion, then why did you pay and sign up for a Jewish dating site?” His answer: “I like Jewish girls. I always have.”

What is it about Jewish girls that “Chris” likes so much? He says he doesn’t know and quite frankly, his unknowingness has me stumped because I haven’t been able to figure it out either.

I asked a good female friend of mine why she thinks a non-Jew would fancy a Jew in particular. She said to me, “Don’t take this the wrong way but I find Jewish men have more drive and ambition than non-Jews. And they tend to make more money.” How could I take this the wrong way when I’ve heard it my entire life? It’s a fairly well-known stereotype but it still didn’t answer my question. Why would a young, non-Jewish guy “really like” a Jewish girl?

I get the whole male stereotype of “rich Jew” from the female perspective but for the life of me, I can’t understand why “Chris loves Jewish girls”. The only stereotypes of Jewish girls I’ve ever heard people use are “JAPS” as in “Jewish American Princesses” who are “high maintenance” and inconsolable “whiners”.

I asked “Chris” if he would ever consider converting to Judaism to which he replied, “No way. I love Christmas too much.” That’s when I had to end the conversation. If the only reason “Chris” sticks to Christianity is because “Christmas rocks” and the only reason he wants to go out with Jewish girls is because he “likes them for no reason”, I was wasting time and he was wasting everyone’s time on the site. I told him this and I even wished him luck. And what did “Chris” do? He called me a “stupid bitch”. I asked him if he thought that’s something Jesus would have done or said and he exited our little chat bubble conversation thingy right then.

And I didn’t feel bad one bit for probing “Chris” with questions. Why? Because I wanted him to realize it’s waste of time to try to make a “square peg fit in a round hole” as the age-old saying goes.

It’s like this: When I go to the supermarket to buy skim milk, I don’t want 2% or homo. I want skim milk. I don’t want a 2% carton that wishes it were skim yet would never undergo the fat-to-skimming process. Likewise, I’m not into homo milk that was once 2% and now wants to become skim. I want skim milk pure and simple without any complication. I figure, if my life is here in America and day-to-day, I can’t live in the Holy Land aka the “land of milk and honey”, then at the very least, I just want my milk the way I like it. Is that too much to ask?

Given the billions of people living in this world, each with his or her own kind of preference, it’s not absurd that I have my own desire to marry a Jew. As such, I totally respect and highly value everyone else on Earth’s preferences in selecting their life mates too. Now that all is said and done, I wish everyone a little mazel (“luck”) on the way to finding true love.

Still, I wonder… Is it really all that unreasonable for me to expect to meet a Jew on JDate?

Canines Vs. Human Companions? The Eternal JDate Debate.

This is a user submission and we love it! We totally identify with the girl in the video. Thanks for sending this to us! A well-composed PoMo tale that resonates in the zeitgeist.

After breaking so many hearts and not even giving some hearts a chance to break, I knew I’d get my payback someday. I just didn’t think it would happen with “M”.

First of all, he was way older than me. Like fifteen years old “older” – definitely too age-old to play games with me. Initially, I didn’t want to go out with him because of the age factor. And, he also had some other flaws I was willing to overlook at the behest of my better judgment, urging my inner self to “Shut the fuck up and give the older guy a chance.”

My sister was visiting from NYC that weekend and the two of us were poking around JDate, trying to fix me up with the next best match when we stumbled upon a guy who calls himself, “THE PIANO MAN”. While perusing the site, I got an instant message “Hello” which always intrigues me enough to go poking around a person’s profile for more details.

At first, “Piano Man” proved to be not all that impressive. Despite showcasing a beautiful, shiny grand piano in the background of his photo, this accompanied his not-so-beautiful existence as a person in the foreground. Lanky, silver-haired and nerdy overall – I wasn’t interested.

“Okay! Next!” I ordered my sister. And so she closed the dialogue box. Minutes later, another message from “M.” popped up telling me he just read my profile and noticed I enjoy the symphony. Then, he asked if I’d like to go to the symphony the following night – he had two box seats. Already, he hit my soft spot. I love the symphony as much as cupcakes, flying first class on international flights and any other luxurious offering in life. I love how hundreds of people play the very same piece of sheet music at the same time for an audience. Of course I wanted to go!

He picked me up the in the nicest car I’d ever been in – a Maserati Quattroporte. I was impressed and wondered what he did for a living. That, he kept secret and I didn’t want to pry too much either. I was quite sure this guy was used to gold diggers going after him like he was the California Gold Rush which is probably why he’s so secretive about how he got all the gold to begin with. I came up with this line of reasoning in my head while driving on the way to hear Mozart. “Lay off the questions,” I decided.

Once in our seats at the symphony, I wasn’t having the best time. In fact, I couldn’t remember not enjoying the symphony the way I didn’t with him. I spent the entire hour and a half analyzing “M.’s” features, trying to convince myself he’s not too old for me. Every time he looked over, I smiled, pretending to be moved by the music but instead, I was making quick transitions from squishing my eyebrows inwards scrutinizing him entirely. Luckily I have sharp reflexes.

At the end of our date, “M.” drove me home and it was like being dropped off by a regular friend but an older one. No kiss or stoic hug goodbye. Just simply, “It was nice to meet you.” And it was nice to meet him too. I thanked him and he thanked me and it was just so, unromantic and civil like an organized friendship play date for adults. And I kind of liked it.

On my way back toward my apartment, I chalked the whole thing up to a date gone “okay”. I also didn’t expect to hear from him again since there was no spark from either one of us. Relaying the night’s events to my sister, she thought my encounter with “M.” was strictly casual too and I shouldn’t expect to see him again. “It was probably a one-time thing,” my sister forecasted and I agreed.

“Maybe he was just lonely,” she suggested. But I highly doubted that. Really, how could a guy with such a nice car and symphony box seat tickets be lonely? Since there was no easy answer, my date with this guy became an enigma or sorts, impossible to figure out and so I abandoned all attempts at rationalizing this one-time event of a date forevermore.

My sister left back for NYC the following morning and literally, minutes after her plane had taken off and I couldn’t text for help if I wanted to, “M.” phoned and asked me for supper that evening. I had to make a quick solo decision. “Sure,” I thought. Another platonic friendship date? “Sounds great!” I told him.

Surprisingly, dinner conversation ended up being fun. “M.” was hilarious. He had an amazing sense of humor and had me laughing uproariously the entire time. He seemed to have loosened up overnight. Or, perhaps he’d grown more comfortable around me, enough to get out of his shell. All reason aside, age and looks were no longer an issue for me. I actually liked this guy for who he was and who he was, was great.

After dinner, he drove me home again. Parked in my driveway, “M.” asked if it would be alright to kiss me. I’d never been asked that before. This was a whole new realm of gentlemanly behavior I never experienced. It was a just-like-in-the-movies kind of “nice” that made me excited to kiss him. And it was a nice first kiss. So soft and gentle. Not wanting to push things beyond an innocent level, we both left at that – a simple kiss.

On my way back inside, I decided that going out with guys my own age or a few years older was overrated by society’s conventions. I’d never known such sweet a kiss from a gentleman existed in this day and age.

But then, much to my dismay, I didn’t hear from “M.” for days. And then, for days after that. I started to feel bad about myself. Was I a bad kisser? What didn’t he like about me? With a bruised ego, I didn’t even want to call and ask him about anything just in case he’d confirm my worst suspicion – that I, a young and attractive, fertile and effervescent woman might not be good enough for him in his mind.

Days went by and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt such heartache over a boy. And this was a grown man! The worst part about it, we didn’t do anything but kiss. So why was I hurting like this?

I got my answer a few weeks later when “M.” called me out of the blue. He said he was out of town and he just got back. He also mentioned something about being distracted by the recent purchase of a new piano for his summer cottage. I didn’t quite understand the correlation but inquired, “A grand piano?” “But of course,” he answered. “Nothing less.” He wanted to know if I’d like to meet up with him for lunch in an hour. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other,” he reminded me.

After having hurt so badly over what now appeared to be a mere assumption on my part that he didn’t like me, I wanted to give him a little taste of his own medicine – to feel what it’s like to be inaccessible. I told him I had plans already but I’d call him back if it was possible to cancel and meet him instead. Truth is, I didn’t have any plans. And I didn’t call him back right away either. I took my time to make him sweat it. I took two hours to be exact. And then when I decided a considerable amount of time had elapsed, I phoned him to tell him I’d love to go out for lunch. But he didn’t answer my call.

Bored, with nothing to do that day, I went back on JDate to surf around. Then, I noticed he was online. Right there and then, in real time. Strange, I thought. I sent him a message but he didn’t respond to it. Was he ignoring me? I sent him one more message and he didn’t respond either. So I let it be. If he wanted me, he knew where to find me.

And that was that. It was the sweetest unfulfilled romance I’d had in a really long time and it made me realize that after being cautioned by the laws of karma for so long, heartbreak finally took its toll on me. It hurt. It hurt a lot, actually. But it made me think deeply and reevaluate things.

At first, I was resentful. I thought, “Here’s a guy with a beautiful car, box seat tickets to the symphony and several grand pianos – here’s a guy who figuratively shits pianos he’s so rich. He’s a piano shitter. Why am I hurt?” And then suddenly, it all made sense.

Here’s a guy who isn’t used to waiting for someone to say yes. It’s always yes to him. “Yes, I’ll have that piano over there!” or “Yes, I’ll meet you in five minutes!” This guy gets what he wants when he wants and I didn’t give it to him. Now neither of us got what we wanted from each other.

But I did get one thing out of the whole experience and that’s a major lesson: You win some and you lose some. You treat people one way and they’ll treat you another. Either way, as it happens, it’s unpredictable but it’s that very unpredictability that makes you feel alive and hopeful for the next one.

Do you think I took it too hard?

I’m guilty of being overly-excited before some dates. While getting ready, I turn up my music, dance like I’m on “Dance Party USA” in its prime and maybe even have a glass of wine to ease up if I wasn’t eased up already.

But to show up to someone’s house completely lit, that I would never do. Which is why, when “Steve” rolled up to my house completely wrecked, not only was I insulted a date with me insinuated it’s okay to be stoned but I was afraid to get in the car once I felt his state of mind was dubious.

“Steve” parked his fancy new Corvette in my driveway and started honking his horn incessantly to get my attention. I was a little taken aback at his approach for letting me know he’d arrived but I thought maybe he’d been there for a while and I hadn’t heard him beep the first ten times over the Yeah Yeah Yeahs blasting from my stereo.

I skipped outside to meet him only to find he was still beeping his horn, not even looking up to see if I was coming. I knocked on his car window to let him know I was there and his greeting hello basically consisted of a chin tilt upwards and a button click to unlock the power door locks.

I stepped inside his car and beamed, “Hey! Nice car!” He said, “I know.” “Where are we going?” I asked, excited. I’d barely gotten in the car and closed the door when he answered my question by peeling out of my driveway, tires screeching, “You’ll see!” he yelled over his revving engine.

Speeding down my little residential street with his music blaring, alerting every neighbor of our presence and his pricey Corvette, my eyes widened as I feared for my life. All the while, I struggled to find the seatbelt and clip myself in since he hadn’t given me the opportunity to do this before going all Mario Andretti on me.

“I love the sound of this engine, listen to it!” he proclaimed, excited. Listen to it? I could hear it without even trying to listen to it! He pulled a sharp turn and got on the freeway, speeding, naturally. My hands clipped on the door and dashboard for balance, I asked him to please slow down. “What? I can’t hear you!” he yelled. “Please slow down,” I requested. “What?” he asked again. “SLOW THE FUCK DOWN!” I ordered him now.

Laughing maniacally, he started to make fun of me. “You’re scared of a little speed?” This was a no-brainer. “Yes, I don’t fucking like it at all!” Couldn’t he tell I wasn’t having fun?

He got off the freeway, pulled into a side street and put the car in park. “Do you mind if I do then?” I didn’t quite understand. “Do I mind if you do what?” I asked. “Speed,” he answered as if I were the idiot. “Speed? Are you fucking joking me?” He pulled out a bag of white powder and clearly, he wasn’t joking.

“What did you think I was talking about?” And he was serious. He saw nothing wrong with his driving nor with offering me narcotics after I’d told him I was “scared of speed” – whether “speed” entailed driving like a maniac or snorting drugs like one.

“Can you please take me home? I don’t really feel all that well,” I said. “Sure,” he replied, taking the parking brake off. “Uh, actually wait a sec!” I wasn’t going to drive anywhere else with this asshole.

“Let me drive,” I insisted. He started with a chuckle as if what I said was the most ridiculous thing in the world as his chortle turned into a full bellied laugh at my expense. “You’re joking! You want to drive my car? My car?” No, buddy. That fucker over there who I’m not a on a date with. “Whose car did you think I meant?” Idiot.

“You’re funny, you know that,” he said. “Drive my car, what a joker!” Laughing all the while, I felt no need to be around this jerk anymore and so I got out of his car and slammed the door. Without looking back, I heard him yell, “Where are you going?” but I didn’t bother answering.

I knew the area well, luckily and just made my way to the main street, found a Subway Sandwich shop, ate a sub and waited for my girlfriend to come pick me up. She showed up a lot sooner than I thought.

“What happened to you this time?” she asked me. “Don’t ask,” I told her. And then I wondered, “Hey, how’d you get here so fast?” She answered, “Speeding. I sped the whole way.” And I was like, “What kind of speed?” Raised eyebrow, she looked at me, perplexed. “What do you mean?” “Nothing, don’t worry about it. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

The night ended with my girlfriend and I sharing a sub in the moonlight.

Do you think I was overreacting?

There are dog people and there are cat people. Sometimes, you get those who love both equally. Then there are those who don’t like either or.  Quite frankly, I don’t trust a person who doesn’t like neither cats or dogs inasmuch as it creeps me out when a person likes their house pet just a little bit too much.

Now before you go calling me bitch for claiming there is such a thing as “liking one’s house pet too much”, I’ll have you know, I’ve had my own cats and dogs before and they all slept in my bed. I know what it means to love one’s own pet that much and I know that within due time, I’d be able to love someone else’s pet like my own. It just takes some warming up.

When I first came across “Mitchell’s” profile, I should have known we’d be incompatible. His main photo showed him decked out in camping gear. I’m the worst camper ever and I hate it a lot. Nonetheless, he had a catchy catch phrase that referenced my favorite Allen Ginsberg, poem, “Howl”. I’d later learn that he’s never read or even heard of Ginsberg but was actually alluding to his dog, Ralph whom he insisted was the absolute “best dog ever” and I had to meet them both immediately. Then he asked, “What are you up to today?”

It was a Saturday and I had no other plans except going to the movies solo so I thought, “Why not? Let’s meet in the West Village.” We picked a spot to convene an hour from then and planned to walk around for a while. It would be a lighthearted way for us all to get acquainted and besides, Ralph hadn’t gone out all morning.

I arrived at our agreed upon landmark a few minutes late and approaching, from the distance, Mitchell looked better in real life but Ralph was a disheveled mess whose eye crustaceans I could smell from miles away. Why bother even having a dog if you let it look like a homeless mutt? Immediately, I wasn’t happy about having to hang with rancid Ralph and worried I’d eventually have to pet him and make pretend I didn’t mind his dog hadn’t been bathed in years.

I played polite, knowing right away Mitchell wasn’t the guy for me, remembering his camping photos and catching whiff of his crusty canine. But he was nice and funny which made me stop myself from wishing that I’d never showed up. He could become a friend of mine. Then I thought, why does every date have to turn into something more than just a date? This epiphany was worth the stroll around town with this stranger and his stinky dog.

For months, I’d been internet dating, hoping to find “the perfect one” but never considered that maybe, before jumping into a heavy situation where we’d both officially be “dating”, the initial first encounter should be more like a friendship interview. I finally realized the only way this whole internet dating business could work is as a series of friendship interviews.

I looked at Mitchell and reminded myself he’s an exception – in his case, this was not a “friendship interview” since I’d already demoted him from having any possibility of becoming anything more than just a friend at all. As far as I was concerned, Mitchell was already a friend of mine, simple.

Nonetheless, Mitchell made it hard to forget we were on a “date” since he kept asking me all kinds of date-specific type questions like how many kids I’d want to have right down to wanting to know my blood type.

To prove I was just his “friend”, I wanted to show Mitchell that I wasn’t expecting anything from him whatsoever. Walking along, I asked him to stop at a hot dog vendor cart so I could get some water. He tried to pay but I’d already beat him to the chase. In a playful way, I punched his arm and said, “Don’t worry. I got it. Thanks, though.”

“You really should have let me pay for that,” he said to me after I cracked open my bottle of water and took a sip. “Since you’re keeping me company on my walk with Ralph, I wanted to do something nice for you.” I was little bit put off by this. Did he think I was just a friend of his too? And if so, what did I do to make him demote me from date to just a “friend who’s keeping him company while he’s walking his dog.” I wanted to ask but felt that might just raise a bunch of other issues which could turn a nice afternoon nasty. Besides, I didn’t want anything from Mitchell other than his friendship and clearly, I already had that.

“Can I have some water too?” Mitchell asked. I paused to think. Would I let my friends drink from the same bottle of water as me? Yes I would. And so, Mitchell could too.

Much to my dismay, instead of drinking water like a normal human being, Mitchell proceeded to pour water straight into his dog’s mouth, letting his dog’s tongue slurp  droplets from the around the edge of my Evian bottle. I was completely in awe. “What do you think you’re doing?” I protested. “It’s a hot day and Ralph needs water too,” he answered. In shock, I demanded to know, “Why didn’t you buy him his own bottle of water?” “Because I didn’t think it would be a big deal if he had some of yours. Any humane person would let a thirsty animal drink their water.” He tried to make me feel bad but the only thing that would make me feel anything close to bad at his point would be drinking from that very polluted bottle where his dirty dog just slobbered about.

Before I could retort and defend myself, Mitchell crouched down and caressed Ralph by the face to talk to him. “You’re such a good boy. Yes, a good boy, you are.” And to my amazement, he sat there kissing Ralph repeatedly on the lips or mouth, whatever you want to call its anatomy. “Good boy, good boy.” Then, Mitchell turned with an outstretched arm, returning my water bottle to me. “Here. You can have your water back.”

I didn’t want my water back. “You keep it. Let Ralph keep it,” I insisted. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of germs,” he replied, choking back a laugh. “Yes, I mean no. I mean, would you look at the time?” I checked my watch in a smooth twist of the wrist. “You are!” he laughed even harder. “You’re afraid of dog germs.”

I was trying so hard to stick to the self-proclaimed vow I’d made with myself days earlier about trying to be nicer to people. This guy was really testing my threshold. I smiled, took a deep breath but all I could say was, “No, I’m going home to French kiss my own dog now. You inspired me.”

I think he knew I was joking or maybe he thought I was being serious. Either or, our friendship-interview-slash-date was over for good and I couldn’t be happier. For the first time in a while, there was no post-date follow-up phone call where I had to explain why it wasn’t going to work. He knew and I knew that we were a rough match from the start and luckily, we’re both going to survive. Some matches are rougher than others and in this case, at least from my perspective, he was a little too “ruff”.

Do you think he was overreacting? Are we?

Not all bad dates happens to us – a lot of times, they happen to others too. Thank goodness we’re not the only ones to suffer from bad dating luck! And thank even more goodness, horror dates don’t only happen to girls.

A guy friend relayed a story of what recently happened to him and we’re still laughing because it’s so outlandish, you can’t make this shit up and the look of post-traumatic stress on his face is hard to express in words but we’ll try.

He agreed to meet this “chick” at a Starbucks in Soho on a Saturday. They’d exchanged specific signals to help them identify one another. She’d be wearing a pink button down shirt, jeans and brown riding boots. He’d show up in a t-shirt, blazer and navy blue Converse kicks. Instantly, they recognized each other which is commendable considering everyone in all of New York dresses like either one of them.

Their meeting got off to a great start. Coincidentally, they both ordered the exact same beverage – soy chai lattes. This set them off on a mission to compile a list of things they both like. And it was a pretty big list albeit vague, comprising such interests as traveling, wine and pop art.

After an hour had gone by and two soy chai lattes later, our guy friend had to leave. He said he had a really good time and he’d like to meet up with this girl again. She said she’d like to meet up with him again too. But before he goes, she’d like for him to meet someone else.

Naturally confused, he asked who? Who did she want him to meet? Smiling and confident, as if there were nothing wrong with what she was about to show him, she pointed across the room to an older woman sipping tea from a mug in a corner.

“My mother,” she said. And her mother waved at the two of them, unashamed. Waving back to this girl’s mother, he addressed his date through clench teeth, looking at her nervously from the corner of his eyes, “Your mother? What? Are you serious?”

“Yes, that’s my mom. Come and meet her!” She dragged him over to meet her mother in the corner and he had no choice but to go along with it. “Mom, meet J. And J., this is my mom.” He says it could have been worse and that he managed to escape this strange scenario with only a mild interrogation from the girl’s mom. But it still scarred him, indefinitely.

Later on that afternoon, he got a call from her asking what she thought of her mom. He said, “I liked your mom. I have no problem with your mom. But I do have a problem with you.” She asked him what the problem was. He told her he didn’t appreciate her bringing her mom on their date. She said her mom was just hanging out in the corner. She didn’t see what the big deal was. And he explained, “when you’re on a date with someone, nobody brings mommy to sit in the corner.” And quite frankly, we agree.

Do you think he was overreacting? Are we?

After the whole “fatso” incident, I was more inclined to bend the rules these days. I decided I didn’t want to wait for prolonged periods of time before meeting in person only to wind up being disappointed nor did I wish to meet anyone at a restaurant, bar or lounge for the first time for the very same reason. I didn’t want to be forced into spending time in public with someone for the extended duration of an entire meal or even a painful martini when I knew within seconds that I wanted out and fast. I preferred a more pressure-free encounter where I could leave whenever, within milliseconds should it come to that.

This guy “Dan” and I chatted on the phone for a few hours one night while I perused over a hundred pictures of him on his Facebook page. From what I could tell, I rated him a seven point five on the looks scale and he earned extra points for being all around edgy and cool. A freelance post-production commercial editor with his own laboratory at home, he invited me over to have a look at his studio midday, on a random Sunday. I figured it was a safe time if any, as opposed to evening per say, to visit someone’s live slash work space. Since rape incidents occur more frequently at night coupled with the meager number of Jews convicted such a crime to begin with in comparison to various other denominations, I assumed I’d be safe but took a can of Mace along with me anyway.

It was a sweltering hot afternoon and I arrived at Dan’s doorstep, parched. Immediately, I asked him for some water because I could barely formulate words, I was that thirsty. “Do you mind tap water?” he asked. “Because I’m on the last round of my Brita filter and don’t have time to go buy a new one this week.” I don’t really mind drinking out of the tap, I thought. In fact, I drink tap water at home all the time. But the fact that I wasn’t worth a glass of almost-expiring Brita filter-water really turned me off of this guy, stat.

“Tap is fine,” I said, thinking that maybe I was overreacting to the issue. Water is water at the end of the day, I decided. No biggie. And so I followed him to the kitchen where he poured me a glass of water from the sink and then proceeded to fix himself a tall glass of Brita filtered water. After chugging my lukewarm tumbler to the last drop, I wiped my mouth and asked him, “So, you don’t drink tap water?” He replied, “No,” without any shame. Feeling insulted, vindictive and mean, I told him, “You know, Brita collects all the same grime and bacteria in its filter anyway so every time you pour yourself a glass of water, you’re actually compounding the amount of crap you think you’ve filtered from the tap in each glass.” I wasn’t exactly sure if this was true but I’d once heard a rumor about it and since “Dan” was acting like such a cheapskate sheister, I wanted to scare him a little bit. “That’s bullshit,” he protested, putting his precious Brita back in the fridge. “Anyway, you want to see my studio?”

Hell yes I wanted to see his studio. That’s why I came over to begin with, douche bag. Especially now that “Dan” lost all his charm points there was pretty much nothing else I wanted to do at his house except see his studio.

And his studio was awesome and totally worth the drive into Hollywood. No wonder he couldn’t afford a new Brita filter – he spent all his money on electronics, synthesizers, computers and gadgets of which I still have no clue of what purpose they serve.

I got bored really fast though when he started showing me his entire work portfolio. “This isn’t show and tell,” I wanted to inform him. I thought my yawning was a pretty good indicator of how interesting I felt this all was. But apparently, “Dan” wasn’t picking up on my lack of enthusiasm.

“Do you want to see my very first reel I ever made in college?” he asked about an hour later. “No, not really. I’m hungry,” I answered. “Where’s a good place to eat around here?”

“Whole Foods,” he told me. I liked the sound of that. A guy with good eating habits. He was earning points again. We walked about five minutes up the street. Along the way he felt the need to tell me his ex-girlfriend used to work there. Why does he think I should know this? As if I cared. Was he trying to make me jealous? Because I think my job as a writer is a lot more impressive than being a cashier at an organic grocery market. Anyway, I stopped myself from over-analyzing the situation and focused instead on what I was going to eat. I know they make great soup.

We both ended up making ourselves salads from the self-serve bar and lined up to pay, him in front of me. If things were going downhill before, they were pretty much about to hit avalanche status in moments to come. The guy’s sheer, complete and utter lack of manners or gentlemanly accord was reaching a boiling point. While in line, “Dan” pulled a little discount card out from his wallet and smirked. “My ex-girlfriend gave me this card. I get twenty-five percent off everything here. One of the bonuses of having dated someone who worked here.” I rolled my eyes. “Cool,” I said.

Now here’s the official kicker – at the cashier, “Dan” paid for himself using his discount card (not that I expected him to pay a few dollars for my salad after I spent ten bucks on gasoline driving down to his crusty ass apartment but I regress). Then, when it was my turn to pay, I eyed “Dan” insinuating for him to pass over the discount card that he so casually put back in his wallet and jacket without a care in the world. And so I paid full price for my salad. But it’s not the full price that made me hate him. It was “Dan’s” total disregard for equity and fairness, his lack of desire to make any sort of pleasing impression on me from the get-go and in general, I couldn’t stand his irrepressible frugality. He was totally cheap. As cheap as they come. From thereon, I decided I would retaliate by implementing my own cheap use of words for the remaining duration of our date together. He would get no more than one word answers from me. That’s all. A simple “yes” or “no”. We walked back to his apartment and he talked the whole way so I didn’t really get a chance to use any of my “yes” or “no’s” on him. But I knew I would eventually get my chance.

“Do you like your salad?” he asked as we ate in his living room. “Yes.” “Do you want to hear any more of my music?” Obviously, “No.” I was even so decidedly adamant about not speaking more than a word at a time to this walking ball sack that when I wanted to leave I just shrugged, pointed at the door, smiled, got up and walked toward it. He seemed to be somewhat insulted by my abrupt departure.

“That’s it? You’re leaving?” he asked, confused. “Yep,” I nodded. “Well, aren’t you going to say goodbye, or I had a nice time or… or something?” “Bye,” I said with a fake smile.

As I walked toward my car, he stood on his front porch and screamed, “Aren’t you going to take your salad with you?” What salad? I thought. I’d eaten it all. So I rolled down the window of my car and yelled, “Nope!” Tires screeching, I drove away and didn’t look back.

When I got home, “Dan” called me up and I answered the phone. “Hello?” Instantly, he began to ramble. “We really left on a terrible note. I have a feeling I did something wrong and I wonder what it is. So I’d appreciate it you could tell me what the problem is.” I thought to myself, how to summarize this all in one single word and maintain the continuity of my self-promised cheap use of dialogue with this waste of a date? “Cheapskate,” I said and hung up.

The thing is, I don’t need anyone to take me out to a fancy restaurant or pay for any of my meals but if someone can’t help me get a discount on a five-dollar salad, then all I can say is, “Next.”

Do you think I was overreacting?

A person’s online profile picture is worth a million dates only if their photograph measures up to what they look like in real life. Essentially, that’s what draws you to a virtual stranger to begin with, right? Looks.

What a disappointment it is when a prospective date doesn’t live up to your expectations, when you see them in the flesh for the first time. It’s even more disturbing when they turn out to be downright ugly or an unacceptably and shockingly hefty, large American.

Such is the case with a guy I like to call “Fatso” for an obvious reason. Judging by his photograph, he didn’t look skinny but I would never think in a million years he’d end up anything close to morbidly obese in person. I mean, during our web chats, he didn’t flirt like a fat guy by any account. He seemed to have all the confidence in the world. He was witty, charming, funny and despite the fact he was just average looking, it was ultimately his personality that enticed me enough to go out with him.

We agreed to meet at a restaurant he vowed was absolutely incredible and one of his very favorites. He told me in advance not to mind the ambiance since this was a place where the food reigned supreme despite the décor.

Set inside a Japanese mall, I took the escalator up to the third floor as per his specific instructions. On my way through the mall, I noticed I was the only non-Asian person around which I thought was a very good thing – now, it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out who I was about to meet.

I was a bit early (which is unheard for me) but I didn’t know the area and figured better safe than sorry. I stood atop the escalator looking down, waiting for my Prince Charming to ride on up. But instead, what I got was a very humungous version of everything but Prince or Charming. I knew it was him instantly. Firstly, he was the only other white person in the mall and secondly, when he said, “Hi I’m Phil”, that pretty much gave it away.

Forty-five minutes away from home and starving to death downtown L.A., I figured I might as well indulge in a meal with fat, I mean Phil. I tried to hide my disappointment which was really tough considering I began to feel slightly insecure that his breasts were larger than mine.

Did he not think I would figure out he was way heavier in real life than on the interweb? There’s only so long one can keep up the whole façade. Really and truly, it’s impossible to hide such a thing as obesity, isn’t it?

What Phil did was blatantly misrepresent himself, no question about it. As the yakitori kept being delivered by the truckload to our table, my anger surged to a red flag level. I began to lament and berate him in my mind. Who was he to lure me to a strange part of town in order to dine with a sumo wrestler? Speaking of sumo wrestlers, a little Japanese kid even came by looking for an autograph and we had to send him away from us… “Sorry kid, not this sumo wrestler. I know he looks like Umono, but no.”

To make matters worse, all throughout the meal Phil talked only about food, telling me about all the amazing places he’d eaten around the city. He told me where to get the best burger, best Brazilian BBQ and what diner had the best fries in South Central. “I’ve eaten at all those places,” he told me. “I believe you,” I thought.

My appetite dwindled as I watched him shove skewers in his mouth by the stick load and fight with his fork to get as much food onto it as possible. Even more so, I was turned off by the fare Phil proceeded to order. Intestines, liver, heart – sure, it was an exotic Japanese menu but what happened to all the normal non-vital organ meats on the menu like chicken breast per say?

“You really have to try the pulled pork,” he insisted. I misunderstood what he was saying to me and got defensive right away with this one. “There’s no way I’m giving you a hand job in this restaurant or ever, never ever at all,” I retorted with a look of complete shock on my face.

“I meant pork, as in pig,” he replied, very matter-of-factly. “Oh, pig. Right,” I was slightly embarrassed but that soon turned into disgust again.

See, I’m not strictly kosher or anything, but given the fact that we actually met on a Jewish dating site, his insensitivity to whether or not he assumed I obeyed strict Judaic dietary law was distasteful and ignorant. “Jews don’t eat pig,” I reminded him. Then, curiosity got the best of me.

“What is pulled pork anyway? Do they pull and poke the pig before they kill it?” I teased, trying to make light of the situation. In shock, he stared back at me as if I were a complete idiot. “Are you serious?” He laughed. “It’s a method of preparation in which the shoulder cut of the pig is cooked using a low-heat. Cooking over extended times at lower temperatures, the meat becomes tender enough that its weakened connective tissue allows the meat to be pulled or easily broken into individual pieces. You know what I mean?” My eyes bulging out, staring in disbelief, all I could say was, “Uh huh.”

I barely ate a thing and nursed a small bottle of sake throughout the meal, listening to his tirades on McDonalds which I was surprised to learn he wouldn’t touch with a two-foot pole.

At the end of our meal, Phil insisted we split the bill. “I don’t pay for girls on the first date,” he told me. “So should we just go Dutch?” “Dutch? Screw that,” I thought. Calculating one bottle of sake in my head, I threw down eleven bucks and got up from the table. “That’s for my bottle of sake and a piece of undercooked chicken,” I said, ready to bolt. He protested, “You can’t do that. “When you split a meal with someone, you don’t calculate dimes and nickels over who ate more than who.” Then, he added, “I’m sorry but that’s the polite thing to do.” After a moment of silence, he could tell I was upset but didn’t care. He added, “Just saying.”

Hands on my hips, unable to hold back a guffaw, I really let Phil have it.

“You want to talk about impolite? Let’s talk about it, dude. You clearly ate way more than I did and that’s seriously impolite to do on a first date. And speaking of rudeness, you may want to update your profile picture.”

“So I’m a few pounds heavier in real life than in my photo,” Phil retorted. He knew! Phil knew he was fat! “A few pounds?” I asked, sarcastic. “Okay, so I’m lonely and just wanted a date,” Phil looked down ashamed. Half of me wanted to shake my head and away, forget this incident ever happened and tell all my girlfriends the guy stood me up to avoid further discussion about this horror-date. The other half of me felt like I needed to say something to make Phil feel better.

“Look,” I told him. “There are plenty of girls who dig a guy with a few extra pounds. I’m just not one of them. But you’re a real nice guy,” I lied. He wasn’t nice. He was mean to me during the pulled-pork explanation during which I found his tone short of sincere. But there was no need to drive the guy’s ego into the ground. “Really, I mean it,” I said with a poised expression that should have won me an Oscar for best lead actress. The truth is, Phil shouldn’t go around tricking girls into thinking he’s anything other than what he is: an overweight guy who’s embarrassed about it. But that’s his fault – not mine. Point is, if you want to meet the right person for you, you’ve got the be the right person for them up front. No hiding behind computer screens. No expecting a few dozen extra pounds to be no big deal at the mercy of a personality that fails to measure up anyway. Just be yourself and be patient that the right person will come along. That being said, patience is worth its weight in dating.

I went back to the Japanese yakitori joint on another date months later and knew exactly what to order, courtesy of Phil. In that sense, our meeting served a purpose in the grand scheme of things in my life. Furthermore, Phil was right about every restaurant recommendation and for that, I’m thankful today. Tomorrow, I’ll likely loathe him after I eat a plate of truffle oil fries at Josie’s in South Central.

Do you think I was overreacting?

There’s nothing wrong with being a trust fund baby. Let’s face it, I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t want to be born shitting into golden diapers or receive a diamond-studded tricycle at age three. Big bucks in the bank, jet-setting on a whim, anywhere, anytime, fancy restaurants and couture – the prospect of it all rouses complete and utter awe.

So when I found out the dude was Trump-rich, naturally, I was ecstatic. We spoke on the phone after a series of email banters back and forth and penciled in a Saturday night date. This typically goes against my strict strategy of making someone worthy of a “Saturday” only after they’ve proved themselves previously on a lesser important night of the week. But remembering his financial godliness, I figured at the very least, I’d have a nice night out.

We met at a hoity-toity resto where he was about to pay for a pricey meal that included everything one would expect from foie gras to crème brulee, not to a mention a hefty-priced bottle of vino.

The conversation flowed with relative ease right from the start which was a relief. First, we covered the basics, like where we both went to school, places we’ve traveled and whatnot. All the boring but expected stuff.

Over the appetizer cheese plate we got all the essentials out of the way. Yet, we still managed to find things to talk about during the main course albeit, nothing out of the ordinary interesting. General news of the day just to show we’re both in the know of what’s going on in the world.

Everything seemed to be going well except for one little problem…

All throughout the meal, I couldn’t help but wish he was better looking. It’s not that he was repulsive. It’s more like he was stuck in some indiscernible time warp where Engleburt Humperdink and Ed Grimley somehow morphed into one person. The hair was an insult to men who can grow it. Completely un-styled and devoid of any personality, that was just icing on the skull.

Now, I’m sure the conservative suit he was wearing cost more than my entire wardrobe all together but sadly, it spoke volumes of monotony and insinuated the communication between us was dry for a reason.

You could imagine my surprise when dessert arrived and the guy mentioned something along the lines of, “if we end up together, you and I will have to be completely honest and devoted to one another.” As I recovered from choking on my water, I asked him what he meant by that. After all we’ve only just met!

He proceeded to tell me about girls he’s dated in the past, who only wanted him for his money and how his father is the ultimate screener to attest to whether the woman in his life is genuine or a gold digger.

“So he’ll pay for everything. We can go on vacations and I’ll buy you diamonds. You’ll have it all. You just have to be loyal to me.”

Why is he coming on so strong? What is wrong with this guy, I wondered.

“The last girl I went out with started asking me for things. So I called my dad to ask him what he thinks I should do. And he said, ‘get rid of her.’ And so I did. Because I listen to everything my dad says.”

And then the check arrived.

As we walked out of the restaurant, buddy carried on with another story a man should never tell a woman, no matter how long they’ve been dating, never mind just two hours after meeting.

Apparently some girl hadn’t been as attentive as he would have liked while out on a date the other week. Allegedly, he stepped out of the bar to phone his father and tell him about the lack of attention he was receiving from said girl. His father inquired, “Have you ordered anything yet?” To which he replied, “No. But she had a martini when I got here.” His father asked, “Where are you now?” He answered, “Out front of the bar”. Without a pause, his father said, “Run. Go. Get out of there.” And he did. Just like daddy told him to.

Why he was telling me this story, only he knows. But then he added the, “if we end up together, you’re going to have to be an attentive wife. That’s all I ask for from a woman.”

Deep breath. Internal thought process: “Buddy. This is a date. Not a marriage interview. Had I known that we were going to get married by the end of the night, I would have at least worn better underwear, assuming the honeymoon would follow. But really? You’re still on about this whole ‘if we end up together’ idea? I had to remind myself the cards were all in my hands at this point. Whether or not we were to wed depended entirely on my own volition and when, again, that too would be on my terms.

He put me in a taxi and paid the driver in advance, a sum I don’t know. When I got home, he sent me a text message to make sure I arrived safe.

Undressing for bed, I reassessed the situation. Maybe this guy wasn’t that bad after all. Possessive, pushy, borderline ugly, a daddy’s boy – yes. But a bad guy? Not in the least. He was obviously a caring person and perhaps just insecure. At least, he deserved another chance. So that’s why when he asked me for dinner four minutes later for the following Saturday night in a subsequent text message, I told him yes.

All week, we exchanged unnecessary messages and phone calls in order to update each other on our boring days at work.

When Saturday rolled around, I wasn’t exactly “missing” this guy’s presence in my life all that much. I didn’t know what we’d talk about. After all, I already know what he’d eaten for lunch every day this week. This constant interaction between us had done the opposite of make me excited about our impending date. It felt more like a parole meeting, for him to make sure I show up on time and act according to his wishes.

On Saturday afternoon, I went to Long Beach with some friends and anyone knows heading back to the city from Long Island on the weekend can sometimes take longer than a cross-national flight. On my way home, from my friend’s car, I phoned the guy to ask if we could reschedule. Obviously, I lied a little and said I was on the train so didn’t know when I’d be home and didn’t want to keep him waiting. His response?

“That’s very tasteless of you. You just ruined a good thing.” And hung up. Had I just been dumped by a guy I’ve only had one date with and who married me that very same night, metaphorically? Obviously, his dad would not approve of what I did, I thought. Breaking a date with his son? Inconceivable!

No big loss, I reassured myself while staring out the window at the Manhattan skyline. He was terribly ugly anyway and the thought of banging him had me throwing up a little inside.

A week later, in the middle of the night, my phone kept beeping to indicate a text message. I turned it off because who the hell would call me at such an indecent hour? In the morning, there were like nine texts from “Daddy’s Boy”.

The first berated me for cancelled our date the week before. The second reiterated that very same point. The third mentioned something about how I’m not pretty enough for him anyway. The fourth proclaimed he was going on some sort of date the following night and “she’s probably a lot better than you”. After that, I didn’t really bother with the last few texts. I could see where this was going.

The following night, same thing. But instead of multiple texts, just one. The next morning, when I checked it, the text said something along the lines of “I’m glad it didn’t work out between us because I just met someone way hotter and smarter than you.”

Smiling at the incredulity of it all, I blew upon my fingers, dusting them in preparation to text back: “I’m very flattered that you were thinking of me while boning another chick. Have a nice life.” I haven’t heard from him since nor do I expect to. What could he possibly do or say to me now? I didn’t really have a choice either. I had to reply in some way or another. Sure, I may have bruised his ego by rejecting one Saturday night date with him but I would not stand to be told I’m less than hot from someone with a face like his.

Then I wondered, did he really meet someone all that great and if so, would she return his amorous advances? Or, would she be like me, completely freaked out and the subject of hostile texting a week later? Staring up at the ceiling, thinking my last thoughts about this, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the notion that he didn’t even meet anyone. Perhaps, daddy just told him what to say to me to make himself feel better. It was either that or he’d just met the ultimate gold digger meaning that sooner or later, daddy would intervene and tell him “she’s no good, son.”

Either way, if daddy looks anything like buddy, I’m just glad not to be sticking around to see what junior will look like. Because all the money in the world can’t make up for the fact that underneath, I’d be married to a possessive troll with daddy issues.

Do you think I was overreacting?