Sunday, August 28, 2011

Starved & Sexless on the Upper East Side

It was a hot summer night. A looming thunderstorm had been lurking in the stratosphere since noon and the city smelled of on-the-verge-of-combusting trash. It was before the talks of Hurricane Irene, before the lines out the door of Fairway and H&H, and before drugstore’s shelves had become barren of bottled water and batteries. Just a typical summer Thursday and I was ready for another typical Thursday happy hour.

I bobbed and weaved my way past the gawking tourists that cluttered Bryant Park, wondering how they could be so oblivious to the fact that hundreds of people were trying to simply walk down the sidewalk all the while marveling at the fact that a skyscraper could make so many Asians closer to drooling than my grandmother on her Vicodens and afternoon vodka. Eventually, after a few shoulder checks and death glares, I made it to the blessed East Side to meet Emily on the corner of 42nd and Lex.

“So where exactly is this meat market happy hour you’ve been speaking so highly of since Monday?’ I asked as we hailed a cab.

The destination was The Thompson Hotel on the Lower East Side and the occasion was a happy hour being held by Emily’s friend’s boyfriend and two of his co-workers who worked at a predominately male insurance brokerage firm of about three thousand employees.

“Our odds are looking good. Apparently there are some good-looking gents at this company,” Emily elucidated with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen since we met the “founders” of Five Guys.

Hmmm…insurance dudes, I thought to myself. Geeks, schisters, studs? I wasn’t sure of what we were about to encounter, but I was hell bent on a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and I always loved an excuse not to take the subway home.

What Emily and I walked into was no less a meat market than Ottomanelli’s on a Saturday morning, as prime rib and New York strips virtually spilled onto the sidewalk of York Avenue. It looked as if we had a diverse crowd to work our way through—definitely a few dorks, definitely some schisters, a little ethnicity, maybe a few misplaced hipsters, and very few X chromosomes.

After catching up with Emily on some weekly gossip, it was time to part the testosterone seas and assess what kind of cuts of beef we were really dealing with in the unchartered waters of the Lower East Side.

Eventually, with Emily nowhere to be found, I got myself into an inescapable conversation with Matty and Mark, two Dockers-donning Manhattanites who were neither full-on geeks or schisters, but most definitely could absolutely never be defined into any type of “stud” categorization. Obligingly, I asked the not-so-dynamic duo where they called their place of employment.

“Well, Bacchus—wait, your name is Bacchus, right?” Matty paused to confirm as I restrained myself from rolling eyes and walking away. I politely nodded, but he had already continued speaking.

“We work at this little company called ING. Maybe you’ve heard of it,” he chuckled as he nudged Mark, as if he had just made the wittiest joke of 2011 in the Tri-State area. Soon thereafter, the conversation turned to Matty’s ex-girlfriend in Long Island and I politely excused myself to the bathroom before I was forced to stab myself in the thigh with my rusted apartment keys.

I staggered through the crowd, noticing that my five glasses of wine and no dinner had quite the affect on both my long distance vision and ability to properly walk in my four inch heels. I eventually found Emily and the rest of our estrogen-fueled group. As we were deciding whether to stay or to head back to home base on the Upper East Side, a gentleman in a lavender and white gingham-patterned button down with a navy tie and black rimmed glasses rolled up. He was well dressed and he was surely handsome, but this was all lost as my stomach longed for a morsel of food and my feet yearned for freedom from my nude patent peep-toes. He could have been Michael Chiklis, shirtless and chasing down a drug dealer in The Shield and I wouldn’t have cared at this point in my stomach-eating-itself, wine-induced stupor.

“Oh hey, Jimmy!” our friend Bonnie exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you all night. Have you met my girls?”

The dapper, but suspiciously too well dressed Jimmy shook his head no as Bonnie continued on with the introductions. “Girls, this is Jimmy Papabeariezzo. Jimmy, these are my girls.”

As I was about to excuse myself from the gaggle circled around Bonnie and Jimmy, this Jimmy character decided to strike up a conversation with who else but me? I politely smiled, told him my name, all the while mapping out when I could end the conversation and hail a cab home.

“So where do you live, Bacchus? In the city?” Jimmy asked in such a manly yet soothing voice that I had to wonder why he was in the insurance field instead of doing voiceover work for National Geographic documentaries.

“I live on the Upper East Side,” I politely replied. With that, Jimmy perked right up.

“Is that so? I do too,” he eagerly added.

“And how did you end in the neighborhood?” I courteously asked while trying to decide if I’d be ordering takeout from Gracie Mews or Yuko for dinner.

“Well, when I moved here a about five years ago, my girlfriend at the time—“

“Wait,” I rudely interrupted with confusion. “You’re not gay?”

Jimmy’s jaw immediately dropped to the floor, his face flooded with confusion and insult. I had clearly just ruined my chances for a cab-share back to the ‘hood. Here’s to another lonely, Sauvignon Blac-hazed ride back to the Upper East Side. Definitely going with the burger after this doozy…

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Sex & the Upper East Side Heads to the Hamptons

My friends were dropping like flies. First went Pookie, engaged to her college beau of seven years. Next came Jenny Saurs, then Annie Smalls. I was one of the few left standing in my close-knit group of Upper East Side friends, still searching for that uptown prince. Who would have thought that a handsome, witty, intellectual, non-chain-smoking, employed man with a functioning air conditioner and a similar affinity for all things vodka and Law & Order was so much to ask for in a city of eight million people?

Instead, my past six years of drinking, dating, and dwelling in a jaded city that never sleeps had left me with men who still relied on their mothers to make their lunches and do their laundry; men who thought the answers to their woe-is-me sad state of life’s affairs was at the bottom of a bottle whiskey and a carton of Marlboro Lights; and men who thought it was acceptable to lie and cheat their way through a relationship. Sure there had been a pseudo-African prince, a LeBron James look-a-like, and a few unforgettably sexy cab rides in there, but those sure as hell hadn’t landed me in a stable, secure relationship accessorized with a diamond ring.

So what better way to forget the John Does of the past than with a girls’ weekend in the Hamptons? I’d spent a summer in the Hamptons years past with my first New York summer love, The Captain. It was before the days of Gossip Girl and The Real Housewives of New York, where my only impression, before stepping off that green Jitney was an episode of Sex & the City where Samantha had picked up a bad case of crabs. Luckily, rather than a creepy STD, The Captain showed me a whole new world, Aladdin-Jasmine style, complete with sunset yacht rides, Vueve, and oysters on the half shell. So here I was, years later, with my best gals, my stars and stripes bikini, and a few penis straws just to get us in the bachelorette spirit.

Emily and I were the only singletons on our girls getaway/bachelorette party/happy engagement weekend, with Emily in her usual verge-of-blackout, don’t-be-shocked-if-she-drools state and me coming off a week-long (doctor’s prescribed) pill binge, so accompanied by a slew of engagement rings, we were quite the unapproachable force of women to be reckoned with—or so we thought.

Discounting the eighty-seven year old blind man who proclaimed us to be the best looking group of ladies in the Hamptons that summer as he stumbled out of the Saltwater Grill, we thought we were free and clear of being hit on for the remainder of the weekend. But luckily, for material’s sake, that was far from the case. Apparently, half-conscious girls and diamond rings don’t scare off boys in the Hamptons.

Next came Phil, a twenty-four year old who bought us a round of drinks with his father’s Amex at Dunk Deck, and proceeded to talk our ears off for approximately thirty minutes about how Boy Meets World was the most underrated show of the 1990’s as his father nodded approvingly from across the pool. Emily then proceeded to give Phil a fake number after emptying her glass and we all could only hope we wouldn’t run into him back in the neighborhood—after all, there’s only so much one can discuss if Fred Savage is involved.

After a sloppy Sunday at Boardy Barn, a cab driver named Tiger, and a beer shot-gunning party that rivaled that of a college football team, post-game victory, it was off to The Drift to see the Tin Lizzie vets in action, wearing red, white and blue Spandex from head to toe. It was a sea of Vineyard Vines and Ithaca stripes, with talk of what year they gradated from Cornell and where their shore house was on Dune Road. There wasn't one non-button-up shirt in the house, creating an alarming landscape of pastels and collars.

I had never planned on meeting my uptown prince out East, considering the Hamptons are essentially the drinkers of the Upper East Side transplanted for the summer weekends that fall between Memorial Day and Labor Day, but I knew I was in singles hell when a twenty-something in a pink button-down and khaki pants asked me if I vacationed in Nantucket.

“Do I look like I vacation in Nantucket?” I asked politely as possible, as I motioned to my friends who had just shot-gunned their seventeenth beers of the day in the middle of the bar, which was (proudly) followed up with a College of Wooster-style “boneyard” finish.

I didn’t own an ounce of Khaki, despised Vera Bradley and was disgusted by Lily Pulitzer. I appreciate men who wear t-shirts that fit them properly, rather than Schmediums, and I don’t give a sh*t if you know how to sail a boat or were on your Ivy League school’s rowing team. I want nothing to do with Massachusetts’ vacation towns or the men that frequent them. Again, is that so much to ask in a bar filled with single, good-looking men?

I finally threw in my towel, and my liver, after a nineteen year old asked me if I had kids because I was twenty-eight and lived on the Upper East Side. Have your balls even dropped? I thought to myself as I shook my head at his confused face framed with floppy, verge-of-Bieber hair.

So on that note, happy Hamptons, Upper East Side! Let the summer games begin and congrats to those (a.k.a. my BKM ladies) who never have to worry about playing those games again! And until then for this Sex & the Upper East Side gal, my search for summer love continues…

Thursday, June 30, 2011

A Single Girl’s Guide to Summer in the City: Typecasting

Shore houses, Hamptons shares, street fairs, and sunning in Central Park. Summer in the city is known for many things, but one of my favorites for this sizzling season is the singles scene. So as we bar hop and barbeque our way to September, it’s just as important for us single ladies to know what kind of wolf packs we’re dealing with out there as it is to reapply our SPF 50 every two hours. Drum roll please! Here’s the rundown (a.k.a warning) on which single men of the city to be on the lookout for drinking in bars near you this summer.

The Sugar Fiend
Typically Sugar Fiends can be found populating bars with extensive scotch menus and a wine list that Thomas Jefferson would envy from his grave. These men are either eternal bachelors or divorcees looking for un-Botoxed, childless women that will serve as the “sugar” to their “daddy” role. If you’re looking for a fatherly figure that will sweep you off your feet to East Hampton for a long weekend, given that he is able-bodied enough to still operate a mobile device, give this man your number. But if a few gray hairs and alimony freak you out, focus your sugar on a guy that won’t potentially have a daughter your age.

The Pick-up Artist
Opening lines such as, “Excuse me, I think you have something in your eye. Nope, it's just a sparkle,” or “I was blinded by your beauty so I'm going to need your name and number for insurance reasons,” are blatant warning signs that you’re on the verge of being had by a Pick-up Artist. Their lines sometimes make us laugh, are usually flattering, and can often lead to a free drink or a future date if you’re so inclined to hear the punch line. The Pick-up Artist gets a lot of hate, but his success rates are admittedly much higher than that of a guy who is too shy to do more than smile across the bar. If their line wasn’t offensive and delivered with a cute smile, give a Pick-up Artist some props for his somewhat skewed attempt at gallantry and take him up on his drink offer.

The Gnat
So maybe you had a too few many margaritas, your beer goggles fell off, and in your blinded haze of tequila, salt, and lime you gave a less-than-appealing man your digits. Somehow, ignoring his phone calls and giving and one-word answers to his texts are taken as a sign you’re interested in happy hour next week. The bad news? You’ve got yourself a Gnat. The buzzing won’t stop even with the endless swatting and call ducking you’re doing. The best route here? The truth. Let him know you’re not interested and you apologize for giving the wrong impression. Hey, Cuervo makes us all do crazy things at least one night a summer!

The Danny Zuko
Summer lovin’ can have you a blast with this boy of summer! He’s cute, he’s witty, he loves Golden Retrievers, and looks sexy in swim trunks. You fantasize of walking hand-in-hand through Central Park next fall as the leaves turn and your relationship deepens. But beware if there’s no talk of tailgates for Giants games or any type of future for that matter—you’ve just been Sandy-ed and we can only hope that you’re not wearing black Spandex from head to toe. If you find yourself falling hard for your Danny Zuko, lay it all on the line before you’re singing on the bleachers by yourself come October.

Whatever happens this summer, roll with it, ladies. It wouldn’t be a single summer in the city without a few Danny Zuko’s and Pick-up artists trying to buy us drinks, after all!

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Sweet Tooth

It was a hot, sticky summer night on the Upper East Side and Emily and I were ready for some good old-fashioned Saturday night prowling. After coming off a somewhat desolate, pitiable spring season in terms of all things sex, dating, and love, we wanted to start summer off on the right open-toed, slingback, four-inch heeled feet. In our oh-so-wise opinions this couldn't be too hard considering Emily's spring had consisted of men pissing in her oven and turning up in a bloodied heap on her doorstep at 4:00am, while mine had been so grievously filled with a string of first dates that never made it to second dates or second base, for that matter.

Considering that my most recent first-and-last date had been with a twenty-five year old who made dinner conversation by asking me my favorite color and bitching about his terrible job in real estate finance (yawn), I concluded that perhaps I was focusing on the wrong age range. I had dated plenty of men in the late-twenties to early-thirties age range, and clearly that hadn't panned out seeing that I was dining alone on sushi on a Saturday night contemplating which Upper East Side bars to lurk that evening.

Two salmon-avocado rolls later I concluded that Emily and I needed to take it to the next age range that night. Men in the thirty-five to forty range surely had something to offer, as they were more financially stable and (hopefully) less inclined to dedicate a night out to getting completely blacked out in an effort to find which equally drunk girl they could convince to leave the bar and help them "walk their dog." We didn't need full on sugar daddies here, just something a little closer. I couldn't do the full-on AARP, insulin-toting, arthritic scene no matter how many pairs of Louboutin's and European vacations were promised to me, but I could do with something slightly sweeter in the form of a good-looking, roommate-less, financially stable, physically fit, sarcastically witty, cat-hating thirty-five year old.

I made plans to meet Emily at T-Bar on 74th and Third. With a cocktail menu offering cucumber sake and jalepeno margaritas, I could only hope that the men drinking these fine spirits were not the same ones who drank out of fish bowls at Brother Jimmy's. I saddled up to the bar and began to study the cocktail menu contemplating martini or mojito as I awaited Emily's arrival. As I was trying to get the bartender's attention to order a drink, I quickly took stock of the clientele. Was that an oxygen tank in the corner and a Panama Jack hat atop a fifty-five year old's head? Cheese and rice, there was no way in suffering, purgatory hell that this was going to be our watering hole for the evening.

The bartender had began to saunter in my direction while a gray haired, weathered man in a black button-down that could be from no other catalog but L.L. Bean tried to catch my eye, I pretended that my phone had rang.

"Oh hey, Emily. I have the wrong bar? No way! I'm such an ass. I'll be right there." I conversed with myself as I put down the cocktail menu, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

As soon as my little high-heeled feet hit the sidewalk, I placed an actual call to Emily, aborting our T-Bar mission. We decided to relocate our prowling to Baroanda, an oh-so-Euro in feel Italian restaurant that back in the days of The Englishman and The Italian had been a bumpin' spot. What I encountered when I walked in put yesterday's fortune cookie from my fried rice lunch of "The good old days are present too," to sh*t shame with its empty bar and half-filled dining room of couples. No Englishmen, no Italians, no hope.

Since I couldn't walk out of yet another bar within a fifteen minute time span, I slugged down a fourteen dollar glass of Sauvignon Blanc. As soon as Emily arrived and slugged down her fourteen dollar glass of Sauvignon Blanc, we decided to take our mission south of the border to Rosa Mexicano. That plan quickly went to hell in a taco shell when we walked in and were hit with a stench of wet garbage and refried beans. This was no environment for properly drinking and/or picking up men. We quickly hailed a cab and headed to Whiskey Blue on Lex. This would be our final stop of the night, regardless of senior citizened clientele or aromas of rotting burritos--we were far too sober for bar hopping in this haphazard manner.

We traipsed with confidence and thirst into the crowded bar, weaving our way through a group of gentlemen hanging at the bar. Their eyes followed our asses as we stepped up to the bar. They were well dressed and clearly over thirty-five--ok, clearly over forty. As we were about to order, one of the men asked, "Can I buy you ladies a drink?"

Hell yes you can, I thought to myself. I just took eighteen cabs to get here. I smiled as sweetly as I possibly could, studying his face and trying to determine how many years beyond forty he really was. As long as he was more sugar and less daddy, he would do for our first round...

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Notches in the Bedpost

My little social experiment to assess whether the notches in my bedpost were actually just notches or rather grooves of deep-rooted, hidden love got off to a bangin’ start—quite literally. It was a bottle of red, a bottle of white, me, Alejandro, and Mrs. Alejandro who was fresh off the boat from Spain at a cozy French restaurant in the East Village. Mrs. Alejandro was a character straight out of Notting Hill with her hair in a banana clip square on the top of her head and a fondness for date pudding. After we dropped off the slightly tipsy Mrs., it was off to the Upper East Side by way of an inappropriate cab ride that may or may not haunt that cab driver forever. One broken bed later and I knew that Alejandro would never just be another notch in my bedpost—but what about the other men I had dated over my past six years on the Upper East Side? Had I missed my Romeo in a haze of Jameson?

As I sat in my parent’s garage in the dark, locked out after a night of drinking with my college girlfriends, I had a lot to contemplate. Should I go “haute homeless” and sleep in the backseat of one of the cars or get down and dirty Little House on the Prairie-style and call it a night on the tool bench? Were the notches of my date-capades past worth revisiting or should I go back to the Brooks Brother-banker dog and pony show of fresh meat? Or should I just ride it out in a garage and wait for Professor Plum and his lead pipe to come put me out of my misery?

So I put together a list of the past twenty men I had gone on at least one date (or something to that effect) with over my 2,190 days on the Upper East Side. It was an average of 3.33 dates per year, with some of the men being boyfriends of one year plus, some of the men being one-time, never-speak-to-again dates, and the rest being something in between:

20. Alejandro
19. The Young Pup
18. Miggy Fuego
17. J.R. Corduroy
16. Andre from the Corner
15. Johnny the Sake Enthusiast
14. The Fonz
13. Jason
12. Billy Blue
11. The Accountant
10. Benjamin
9. The Trader
8. Jeremy
7. Hershey
6. The Realtor
5. Jimmy Bats
4. The Attorney
3. The Valentine
2. Brady Follows
1. The Englishman

After compiling this very diverse, inter-continental, multi-occupational list, I realized there were quite a few I just couldn’t justify indulging in, even if they were my own sloppy seconds. It was time to check this list twice, Christmas-in-July-style and find out what qualities I really was looking for in a man--and more importantly, qualities that I wanted to steer beyond clear of. Nothing like a little naughty elf-work to start off the summer…

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Blasts from the Past

It’s been a slow spring in all things dating and love for this Sex & the Upper East Sider. Sure, there had been a few dates here and there, and that one notable middle-of-the-bar makeout session with a twenty-six year old last weekend, but Susan Miller (unfortunately) wasn’t lying when she predicted that my May would consist of a lot of couch time—alone.

As it turned out, April dates don’t bring May orgasms. April started with Johnny who was a radiologist by day and a drunk, divorced dad by night that got smashed Samurai-style on our sushi date. I’d never seen sake consumed with such speed and enthusiasm, but he put Asian drunkenness to shame that night after consuming an entire rice paddy’s worth of Uncle Ben’s favorite stuff. Not to mention that he lived in Brooklyn, and as we all know, long distance never works out—my ass isn’t leaving Manhattan for a man who is highly likely to blackout within the first forty-five minutes of our date. That’s just bad sex waiting to happen.

Then there was Andre who picked me up on the corner of 82nd and Third on his way to Pisa Pizza. While I wasn’t sure if being picked up on a street corner was better or worse than being picked up in a bar, Andre did deserve a little street cred for being the first man in 2011 to buy me flowers. But the fact that Andre was slightly man-orexic, didn’t drink, and was in the middle of finalizing his divorce led me to decide that my adoration of food and alcohol, in addition to my predilection for legally single men, wouldn’t exactly mesh with Andre’s current lifestyle. Needless to say, Andre didn’t make it to May.

Then May hit. First, there were the emails from Alejandro. Then came BBM’s from The Realtor, followed by texts from Miggy Fuego and J.R. Corduroy—all blasts from the past. I had been seriously considering taking off the month of May from dating to focus on drinking with my girlfriends and of course, focusing on my couch as Ms. Miller so eruditely suggested, but then I saw the preview for What’s Your Number?, a romantic comedy starring Anna Farris that’s trailer is surely going to be far funnier than the actual movie itself. In the movie, Anna Farris’ character contemplates whether she overlooked her one true love in all of the men she had dated, and as a result, revisits her twenty ex-boyfriends to determine if she had made a wrong choice somewhere along her merry dating way.

There was no intricate storyline or complex characters here, and definitely no Academy Award nominations in the works, but it was food for thought for my little Sex & the Upper East Side world. Suddenly, four men of my last twenty relationships had come out of the woodwork in less than a week’s time. Coincidence or aligning of my astrological moons? There was only one way to find out.

As “they” say (they being a non-existent, ersatz group of allegedly very wise and all-knowing people), everyone deserves a second chance, and as Jean Nidetch once said, “It's choice--not chance--that determines your destiny.”

Although Nidetch was probably talking about making proper food choices in an effort to lose weight considering she is the founder of Weight Watchers, I’m almost positive that her wise words can apply too to my verge-of-pathetic dating life. Perhaps I had made some wrong choices in the past, just like Nidetch’s overweight followers who order Big Mac’s rather than grilled chicken salads with the dressing on the side. And perhaps some of the schmuck’s from my relationships past did deserve a second chance. Maybe I shouldn’t dump someone just because they wear terribly ugly shoes or say “aks” in stead of “ask”. One drink with each couldn’t hurt, right?

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Wannabe Slut

I started off my last article, “Why Men Aren’t Married” with the promise to make a few ridiculous statements, and ended the piece with a pledge to rebuttal any lamentable arguments. Kudos to Anonymous #2, who wrote:

I’m a pussy? How do you know? Listen, men aren’t afraid of commitment. We just learn early in our dating lives that they’re a lot more work. Now I have to concede that sometimes it’s worth it. That goes for both men and women. When we find the right person, it’s all worth it. Or at least that’s what I like to believe. In the meantime, I’ll keep showing women glimpses of sensibility, they’ll keep confusing it for vulnerability, and women like yourself will keeping finding themselves in the morning—dignity in tow-- walking past my dirty bathroom in your hunt for a cab.

Anon #2, was it in your dirty apartment that I left my dignity at? I've been looking for it for weeks now!

But in all seriousness, Anon #2 does make a compelling point that perhaps men just learn earlier (or are more accepting of this fact than women) that dating is work. And perhaps men are wiser for not partaking in unnecessary “work” with women they know are not “the one”—they’re holding off on the mother workload until the right lady comes along. I can’t say I don’t see the validity in avoiding excessive work. And for the record, Anon #2, I rarely sleepover and don’t hook-up with men who lack the courtesy to hail a cab for me.

And while there were some other notable comments with valid points, my favorite came from Anonymous #3, who so eloquently posted:

I randomly came across this website, and was intrigued to read something good given I have alight day at work. No hate, but the writer of this blog is such a wanna be slut. I don't if she cares to even read this comments - but the reason you get dumped by so many kids (from 2 articles I read here) is because you are a complete waste of human skin. Get a life, you will not have the "Sex and the City" people making a show on your crap.

Well, Anon #3, I’d hate to see you on a “heavy” day at work. I can only hope that for your co-workers sake, you did not take out any rage that my latest posting may have caused you on someone for the paper jam in the copier or stapling your PowerPoint presentation on the wrong corner that day.

And yes, I do get dumped, Anon #3. I tend to stay away from dating “kids” as it is somewhat of a legality issue in this country, but I’m a single, twenty-eight year old Manhattanite who happens to like vodka. This means that I go out to bars, often meet men, sometimes exchange numbers, and henceforth go on dates the subsequent weekend. Sometimes these dates lead to relationships that can last anywhere from four weeks to nine months, depending, and sometimes they only lead to just one, single date. This is called dating, and as a result, people get dumped. This is a fact of life, Anon #3, albeit not always a sanguine one, but a fact nonetheless.

And just to clear up any confusion, because I date and sometimes get dumped, I’m a waste of life? Because I have relationships that don’t pan out to a royal wedding in Buckingham Palace with an Alexander McQueen gown, I need a life? Because I may have sex with someone out of wedlock, I’m a wannabe slut? Sounds like hate to me, Anon #3.

I clearly hit a sore spot somewhere with you, Anon #3, but my mother raised me properly, and as a result, I refuse to call someone whom I have never met and couldn’t pick out of a crowd if my “waste of human skin” depended on it, insulting and insolent names. Perhaps you don’t like strong women articulating their opinions, or conceivably, maybe I hit the nail on the head of why one of your past relationships failed. But all’s fair in love and blogging, so I hope your little dirge to Bacchus G’ues made your “light” day at work even lighter—sounds like you may need more than a light day, but what do I know as a wannabe slut, anyways?

And for the record, there's no "wannabe" to slut, but we can cover that lesson another day. Let's stick to the basics of dating for this week...