Does Debbie

Tuesday, March 29, 2005


The turn of the millenium was amazing. My best friend Kim pursuaded me to go on a 12-day cruise to the Carribbean. Although we went on a Carnival Cruise, it turned into the Love Boat (I know, that sounds totally cheesy, but work with me here.) Kim, myself and our third friend all found romance aboard the big seas, with my beau hailing from Puerto Rico, where he was in law school (and his father was an anasthesiologist.) His name was Carlos. Technically, his name was Carlos, something Latino, something Latino, Perez. Regardless, I won the "score the hottest guy on the trip" award.

I won't bore you with all the details from the cruise, or my several trips to Puerto Rico post cruise. But I will share a story from Aruba, where we docked one day.

In addition to my two friends, we met two cousins from Toronto, and two other girls from NYC. In Aruba, day 5 of the cruise, we all decided to go out on the big yellow raft, the Banana Boat. What fun. Seven of us being carried across the clear-blue Carribbean, bumping up and down, and screaming with laughter. Then, water. The driver of the boat found it fun to "tip" our banana, send us shooting below the water, body parts flying everywhere. The tipping was fun the first time. But that's where the fun ended.

On the second "tip," my friend RA's elbow ended up in my nose and I ended up with a black eye. I was hysterical- in pain, bleeding, and scared I looked like a freak. What would Carlos think? Why do these things only happen to me? (see ) for other examples.

After the accident, my friends propped me up on a lounge chair, ice in tow. I felt like I was going to diet, or even worse, vomit. The pain, the puffiness, the peril. Then out of nowhere came Carlos. Like an angel from the sky (just kidding, barf.) Seriously, he couldn't have been any nicer- he helped me back to the boat, and proceeded to hang out with me for the remaining 7 days of the trip. And the black eye stayed the entire time.

Lesson learned from this one: The damsel in distress is a good card to play. Either that, or date people with language barrriers.

Monday, March 28, 2005

Honey, Don't

When it comes to adding spice in the bedroom, people's tastes are as diverse as their palates. Of course there are those like things salt-free, and those who need to add some pepper to their orgasms. For example, once on Date #3 with someone, he whipped out a blindfold (no, we weren't doing that, not that soon!) While this might be considered kinky for some, others find this mildly seasoning.

Without revealing too much about my preferences (and I am not going to tell you how I reacted to the blindfold incident,) I do have a funny story to share...

One of my first boyfriends in the city, after graduating college, was M. We met through his roommate in early fall, and I was ecstatic when we started dating in January. The R-rated times with M M were fun- our thing was to push the envelop in outdoor spaces. But never were any tangible items added to the mix, until my birthday that September.

After a special bday dinner, M and I thought it would be fun to go "food shopping" at the local bodega. For some reason, I was drawn to the honey bottles (maybe I was sensing the upcoming Rosh Hashana apples and honey.) Who knows.

What I neglected to consider was the amount of body hair that M had (total sweater boy, but fortunately, no back hair. Or at least that's the picture I am going to paint for you.) So what I thought would be sweet and tasty turned out to be gooey and stuck. Very stuck- akin to getting gum in your hair. Let's just say that M took 2 showers that night, and was pulling honey out of his hair for a good 2 weeks following. And all I got for my birthday was a nice dinner.

Lesson learned.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Yom Bum Kippor

If you asked me what my most embarrassing moment was, I'd have to say it was the "table story" in college. But given that I am not sharing that experience with just anyone (and anyone has access to this blog) I thought it would be fun to share my second-most embarrassing story. Don't worry- this one isn't any less R rated, it just happened ten years earlier.

My family was at my grandmother's condo for the Jewish holidays. My family being my mother, my father, my sister and I, and our extended relatives. My grandmother's condo being a luxury 5-story building with a video intercom system.

As we got there earlier than my aunts and uncles, my father, sister and I thought it would be fun to play a game while we waited for everyone to arrive. My dad went down to the lobby and waved to the video camera. Tuned to channel 13 on the TV, my sister and I watched as my father blossomed into a TV star.

Next up was my sister. She went down to the lobby, and like my dad, made funny faces into the camera. Nothing too harmless.

Then it was my turn. Being the older sibling, I needed to strike gold here. I needed to outperform my father and sister. I needed to show some skin. Completely forgetting that this was a large building and that EVERY resident had access to the video intercom system (and was most likely watching it themselves waiting for their holiday guests to arrive) I turned around and put my back to the camera. And pulled down my pants. Yes folks, I mooned the camera and the 300+ senior citizens living in the building.

It was a very happy Jewish New Year for the old men watching...

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Stay Put

traveling can be a wonderful experience. Seeing new neighborhoods, enjoying new restaurants, meeting blind dates. Unfortunately, I am one of the people who falls into the "traveled for potential love" category. Note the past tense in "traveled." That was one lesson that I learned the hard way: never inconvenience yourself for a suitor as he or she is very rarely worth it.

Yes, I know that there are exceptions to this rule. And I am not that cynical. I have read the odds-defying success stories on Jdate where Jenny from Minnesota wrote to Jared from New York and when they met in person, it was love at first site and they eloped. And my friend in Florida traveled to another state to meet her year-long email penpal and left glowing (you can use your imagination for that one.) However, the only glowing that came from my long-distance travels was when I turned on my iPod on the journey home.

I have made the love quest twice in my life. Well, technically, one and a half-times. The first was when I jumped on Amtrak after being invited by a blind date to attend a Flyers hockey game. So even though I traveled south to meet a guy my relative "thought I would have so much in common with" the commitment was less than 6 hours (1.5 hours to get there, 2.5 hour game, 1.5 hours back.) And while there were no sparks, I saw a good game. And the french fries rocked.

The next time- um, yeah, that's another story. I honestly believed I must have either reached the strangest level of desperation, or was possessed by aliens. I vote for the latter. You see, I had met ____ (wow, I even blocked his name from my memory and this happened last year) online- he wrote me, I swear. Let's call him Ian, until his name is remembered. The emails were fun. Ian and I quickly moved to the phone and would talk for hours. He challenged my thoughts, he was bright and interesting. He lived in Indianapolis.

Now there is no way I would EVER move to Indy (ok, never say never) and this topic came up a week before my planned trip to visit Ian. You see, Ian decided to fly me out there. He felt that Indy was a more neutral city than NYC. What a bunch of bullshit. Regardless, when I told Ian that I would never move there and really could see a lifetime in the big Apple, we got into a huge fight. We actually thought that if we had no future together, why should we meet. Talk about putting the cart before the horse. I snapped back my senses and decided to travel to meet him- how bad could a weekend in Indy be?

BAD. Talk about awkward. Ian wanted to drink his way through the weekend and was flat out wasted on his sofa within a few hours. And the restaurants that we "enjoyed" consisted of Wendy's, Taco Bell, and some fast-food steak joint. I swear. Now I am not a food snob, but I sure as hell didn't fly across the country for a Fiesta Bowl from the Bell. I was trying to think outside the bun, but all my brain was telling me was to get the hell out of that state.

The 42 hours I spent with Ian were awful. And I forgot to mention that Ian dipped tobacco. A lot. So the entire time it was me, Ian, and his spit cup. GROSS. He drove me around Indy, which was nice, and we went gambling in Ohio (at separate tables, of course.) But there was really no spark. I cried on the plane back, upset at my stupidity. How could months of communicating (with pictures and a great connection) fall so flat. Why did I need to look elsewhere when I had never had a problem meeting men, and there were plenty of that gender in NYC.

I'll tell you why- because we all believe in fairy tales and had that one come true, it would have made a great story. Instead, it's another funny posting on my blog. Not a bad trade-off.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Tasty Banana

Another random occurrence at work:

As gross as it is to think about them, there are rats in New York City. Yes, we have all seen them scurrying along the subway tracks (and it amazes me that I have yet to see one smushed by the approaching train) and when we venture very east and very south in the city. And there are those of us who have had the misfortune of seeing a rat in their apartment- no one I know, blessed be he. But according to some NYC article, there are a few million of our little gray friends sharing this metropolis wonderland with us.

I have never seen a rat at work, and frankly, if I do, I might not be working there much longer. And to prevent me from this form of quitting, my company does everything they can to prevent the appearance of such gross rodents. Including placing traps. This might seem like a normal procedure, except that the traps are in the middle of the floor, and the traps assume that the rats (and not to ignore their fellow furry friends, the mice) can read.

In the hallway, next to the filing cabinet, lies a sticky rodent trap with a bright yellow array of bananas, and in big, black type, "Tasty Banana." Now here is where the weirdness sets in. Just who exactly cares if the trap tastes like banana? I'm not going to throw peanut butter on it and start chowing down. And I'm as sure as the sky is blue, that the rat has no clue what a banana looks like. I guess the rats can read.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Gone Golfing

As with most sports, either you're born with talent, or you suffer through years of acquiring talent. Throwing a football: talent. Catching a football: no talent. Running long distances: talent. Running fast: no talent. Hitting a golf ball: talent. Driving a golf cart: no talent.

To understand that last comment, I need to take you back to the 26th day of December, 2004. I was in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic, staying at the beautiful Punta Cana Resort with a few friends. The resort has an 18-hole golf course right on the Caribbean Sea; it couldn't be any nicer. As this was only my 3rd time on the golf course (but a pro at the driving range might I add) we had decided to play the front 9 holes. Rob and I against Kim and Dan.

We rocked. Rob and I were amazing. Ttechnically Rob was, but there is no "I" in team. We looked like we had been playing since we were teenagers (um. Rob has.) Dan and Kim were good as well (adding this in case they read.) We had made it through the first 4 or so holes and then I conducted the biggest gaffe on golf course history.

Being new to golf I was still learning the rules. Like when to yell "fore or four or whatever it's called" and when to let people tee off in front of you. I even knew how to drive the golf cart. But at that fateful moment when Rob was hitting and I wanted to catch up to him in the golf cart, I didn't know that what I was driving into was not the pathway, but rather the sand trap.

Yes, I drove into the sandtrap. And not just a foot or so into it. I drive halfway through the fucking thing. It looked like the road. I didn't know.

Rob and crew died when they saw what I did. To this day, the memory of me sitting in the golf cart in the middle of the sand trap brings Rob to tears of laughter. I was embarassed. And you know what? I kinda still am.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Matchmaker for Mom

In today's e-dependant matchmaking society, it is becomming less and less common to see the traditional third party set-up. The more common set-up these days is the identification on a potential match for a friend and the forwarding of their profile to that aforementioned friend, made very easy by online site's "tell a friend" feature. Which makes my matchmaking story unique. Yes it was online. But no profiles were forwarded. And it was my mom.

Back in 1999, I began to experiment with online dating and had a free 2 week trial membership to Having found no qualified suitors for myself, I decided to search out 50-60 year old men. For my mother, what were you thinking? After all, mom had been divorced from dad for 13 years and while dad was re-married, mom was single. I quickly scanned the profiles of men in her age range, in her religion, and in her area. Given I was on the forefront on online dating, I really couldn't be picky with height or weight- there were only so many men that age in the dating pool.

Just like the Three Little Bears, the qualified men appeared on my screen. One was too young looking, one was too weird looking, and one was just right. Profile Anon.J_Bug seemed great. He, too, was divorced with two daughters, he had an array of interests, and he had hair. I wrote to Anon.J_Bug with the subject line "My Mom Will Kill Me" and proceeded to tell him that although this appeared a little strange, I was writing him on behalf of my "adorable" mother and "would he tell me a little bit more about him so I can see if he was worthy of her."

Jeff wrote me back later that night, agreeing to play along. He shared his hobbies and work interests with me, and said he would call my mother, only if I gave her advance warning. Well, I told mom what I did and shocked was an understatement. As her email was down, she had me reply to Jeff using her words "I am a slim 5'4" (lie mom) with a Masters in Education... blah blah... I would be interested in talking with you. I think we have a lot in common." I gave Jeff my mother's phone number and ended the email with "you never know."

A few days later (initial email was on Thursday, this was Sunday evening,) Jeff called my mom. I forgot to mention that they lived about 50 minutes away from each other. They spoke for about an hour and Jeff said that rather than ringing up a phone bill, they should meet. That night. Although mom was in bed, she quickly threw on clothes and met Jeff at a restaurant in the middle of where they both lived. This was May 23rd, 1999.

Flash forward 11 months-
My mom married Jeff. April 16th, 2000.

Next month is their 5-year anniversary.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

The $850,000 Date

We all have our nightmare blind dating stories. The woman that was 20 pounds heavier than her picture, the guy 3 inches shorter, the one that just never showed. But there was one that stands out, from the many blind dates I have endured: the rich man. For this story, let's call him Art.

Art wrote me at, where else, "the system" (aka Jdate for those of you new to my stories) a few months ago, at a time when I was the most vulnerable: I was home sick with the flu. As it turns out, Art was home from work as well having injured himself in a helicopter jumping ski accident in Aspen. Art's profile was funny enough to intrigue me; vague enough to not deter me. Honestly, he could have been from Staten Island and I would have still written him back- I was delirious with fever. Art provided the much needed entertainment from the boredom of 5 sick days, and a blizzard. Using my laptop and Art's blackberry, we exchanged over 100 emails those days.

Art told me all the wonderful details of his life: how the blizzard prevented his personal shopping appointment at Prada, how he once caught an ex-girlfriend going through his tax returns, how he had houses in Vail and Vermont, and a plasma TV. There are many women who might have been intrigued, I wanted to barf. Why was I still talking to Art you might ask? On top of preventing me from losing my mind, Art was a godsend- he drove over a bagful of DVDs to help me brave the flu and the blizzard. He even lent me the entire first season of 24. Art was my hero.

After we recovered from our respective ailments, it seemed only natural for Art and I to go on an "official" date (dropping off videos did not count.) I left the decision up to Art- I had a feeling he was a little more selective in his restaurants.

A few days later, Art picked me up at my apartment in his shiny, new big-ass BMW and took me to one of the nicest restaurants in NYC- Il Mulino (definitely not blind date worthy, probably not even dates 1-5 worthy.) When we walked in, Art was hugged by the maitre'd, poured his "favorite" scotch by the bartender and seated at the finest table in the house. Not bad. I'm not going to complain at this point- the food was unbelievable.

The conversation flowed and I laughed at Art's stories- he was getting cuter by the minute. That is until the topic turned to work. Art began telling me the details of his career, and all-of-a-sudden, like a teenage popping zit, he spewed out something gross- his salary. Art began to tell me that last year was a bad year for him, as he only made $850,000. As soon as it started coming out of his mouth, I tried to stop him, I tried to cover my ears. Did he really just tell me his salary on the first date?? The only thing I could think was, "man, this guy must have a very, very small penis."

7th Floor Pranks

In honor of my alma mater winning the Big East title, and as a request from my sorority sister Tits (just kidding, that's not her name, although many non-Greeks think that we give each other queer names like that. Mine was Lips for the record.) I thought I would share a moment from my tenure at 'Cuse.

We are taught a lesson early in life that many do not learn until it's too late. "When someone teases you, if you let them bother you, they will only continue to tease you." I learned that lesson, finally, my sophomore year at college.

You see, my male friends down the hall thought it was fun to throw things out our dorm room windows. Being on the 7th floor, and having the entrance to the dorm directly below the windows, I must admit that I saw the humor in that one as well. Found laundry was a popular choice. However, one day I arrived back at the dorm to see something 6 feet long and a few feet wide being tossed out the window. It was white and padded. No, it was not a giant maxi pad. This was my mattress. You see, my neighbors thought it would be hysterical for my bed to fly seven stories out the window. Did I think this was funny? Of course not. Did I get very upset and show my anger? Of course. Did my neighbors plan another prank? You betcha.

This time, the joke was on me, literally. Walking back to the dorm a few weeks later, I heard my male neighbors call my name and wave to me from the good 'ole seventh floor windows. Being the pleasant collegiate I was, I waved back. Within seconds, a bucketful of water was tossed out the window, on me. This time, rather than get angry, I tried something new. I laughed. And laughed and laughed. And never had another prank pulled on me again.

Monday, March 14, 2005

Worthy of my Inbox

As a woman, I tend to regard most of my personal possessions sacred to men. Of course, there is my body, which has limited access. Then moving down the rank are my emotions, my attention, my free time, my phone number, and lastly, my email address. Hell, I give my email address to my cable company, my online astrologer, and to every online marketer it seems like. Is it really that big of a deal to give it to a guy? I had thought, no, until my friend Amy told me that a particular post-date email was not "worthy of my inbox."

What did that mean exactly? Was my inbox that omnipotent that certain emails should be deleted to never, ever appear again. Apparently, yes.

You see, after a recent date with Adam, I put much thought and effort into the "follow-up" email. This was our first online communication- all prior communications were by telephone (the smart way to go.) However, after our date, Adam had given me his email, wanting me to send him all the copious notes I had taken at our recent date to the film festival. This was my chance to wow him with my written wit; my power of the pen. I plowed ahead and crafted what I deemed to be the most perfect follow-up email ever. No mention of absolutely needing to see him again, I made sure that every other line evoked a smile or a laugh, and I asked a few questions, to ensure a reply email. I hit the nail on the head. Or so I thought.

A few hours later, AOL cheerfully told me that I Had Mail, and a return email from Adam had arrived. The anticipation mounted- would Adam be as adept at the dating emails? Well... no. You see, Adam's email was quick, to the point, no wit, no questions, and most importantly, no mention of another date. You see, Adam had crafted the perfect elusive email. And it drove me crazy. Being a woman, I needed to get an opinion on what this meant. Did he not like me? Was he crazy? Was he just busy? Amy seemed to provide the correct answer when she told me to delete the email. Yes, delete it. (and that includes deleting it from the deleted email file which, admittedly, we all look at even though it has been labeled deleted.) Amy said that his email should not remain in my possession as I would continue to read and analyze it. It would drive me crazy, she said. It would lead me to jump to meaningless conclusions. It was "not worthy of my inbox." And with that phrase, I realized that Amy was onto something. I had control here. I was in charge. I was woman, here me roar.

His email was not worthy of my inbox. My inbox should be filled with evites (to remind me how popular I am,) jokes from friends (to remind me how I surround myself with people that make me laugh,) with upcoming running races (to remind me how athletic I am) and with emails from guys making plans (to remind me how much of a catch I am.) It should not be filled with vague, elusive post-date emails. And with that, I hit "permanently delete."

A disastrous Aura?

About a month ago, I was sitting in a conference room at work, chitchatting with some co-workers about weight loss and dating, while we were awaiting the arrival of the last attendee. This conference room, Elmhurst (all of the conference rooms at my company are named after New York locales, i.e. Gramercy, Columbia, Herarld Square. Cute, right? Not to go off on too much of a tangent, but this brings up a joke I can't refrain from sharing: What do Brooklyn and Panty Hose have in common? "Flatbush") was in the corner of the building, with lots of windows. As it was cloudy out, it was gray in the room.

But enter co-worker, George, and quite biblically, the clouds parted and there was weird brightness. Rather than do work, of course, we used this opportunity to tell George about his bright presence, and being the spiritual guru that he is, George started talking about people's auras. George believes that your aura is your driving presence in life. For example, people who give off negative auras tend to have more "accidents" in life.

My entire disastrous history flashed through my mind: spilling coffee all over my ex-boyfriends sofa, covering my father's black car with yellow road paint, getting a concussion on the ski slopes while STANDING on the side of the mountain, out to brunch with 10 girls and being the person that has 5 mimosas spilled all over me. Yup, there was a definite trend going on. Did this mean that I had a bad aura?? Were my "incidents" the result of a negative subconscious? I conducted an experiment to see what would happen if I focused on a positive aura- would my luck change? Would I still fall and embarrass myself in public? We would see...

Flash forward 33.4 days later. Positive aura aside, I made a mental check list of all my disasters. Or shall I say lack of. A weekend of skiing and snowmobiling without a scratch on my hand- check. A handful of dates without tripping or spilling- check. With the exception of breaking off a piece of caulking in my shower, all in all it has been a disaster-free month. By george, he's right!

Friday, March 11, 2005

My 15 Minutes of Fame

P.T. Barnum once had some quote about everyone wanting their 15 minutes of fame. And in case it ever comes up on Jeopardy, his last words upon dying were "how were the receipts today at Madison Square Garden?" Ok, back to the fame. Notorioty and a moment in the spotlight have always been a secret desire of mine. Guess it's not so secret anymore. While I have not come remotely close to the fame of people such as Jennifer Aniston or Mrs. Butterworth, I have had one or two on-camera moments worthy of sharing.

The majority of camera-time occurred in high school. There was the time when I was at the mall with my mom in November and the Christmas lights had gone up- early as usual. The local news were there asking local Baltimorons their two-cents about the lights. I got screen time, but no clue what I said.

I was also on the news that day in high school when a select group got to follow around local government employees for the day. For one shining moment, I was the Director of Communications or something like that. This was truly my acting debut- on camera, 5pm news, asking the "mayor" about a press conference. Man, was I good.

Then of course there was the embarassing, wish I could take back moment where friends and I spotted the local news downtown and begged the reporter to let us ask our boyfriends to prom on the 6pm news. What were we thinking?? Of course she said yes, and thousands of people, including my orthodontist, saw me plead for a prom date in between the traffic and weather reports.

(Don't worry readers, only two more news moments.)

Flash forward several years to 1996 or so. An event every New Yorker and Baltimorean (hell, every baseball fan) will remember. Play-offs, fly ball, Jeffrey Mayer. Yup, I was at that game and upon that dreadful moment, I turned in my seat, to see the local Baltimore news in Yankee Stadium. Next thing you know, I was asking the reporter if they wanted to interview me, as I was from Baltimore and living in New York. And of course, I had an opinion about that piece of shit 12 year old that caught the ball. 11pm news. That was a good one.

The last of my 15 minutes (and this one clocked in at 4 of those 15 minutes) was in 2001, following the 9/11 attacks. For those of you that don't know, I was laid off from my ad agency job one week before 9/11 and one day after my 28th birthday. Rather than getting another agency job (which there were none of at the time) I was hired by Nino's to help run the restaurant operation that was feeding the rescue workers 24/7 (this experience is another story on its own.) But one day in December, Osama bin Laden released his frist tape following the attacks, claiming responsibility. This was covered by the news, of course, and CNN had 24-hour coverage of this. Loving Nino's, CNN filmed there often, and on this day, they were looking for people to share their opinions of the tape. Enter me. CNN aired, in sequential order, Colon Powell's reaction to the tape, Mayor Guiliani's reaction to that tape, and then my reaction to the tape. 4 minutes, recorded live for the world to see. The first time it aired was on Headline News, and the reported liked my interview so much they had me do it again for regular CNN. Crazy. A moment I will never forget.

The Randomness in My Life Part 2

This should really be called The Randomness At Work. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

So I go to the bathroom at work. To paint the picture, our bathrooms have an area where there are mirrors and wrapped hard candies (with a typed sign above the candy bin that reads "Please wash your hands before taking a candy. Thanks") before you actually enter the room with stalls and sinks. I guess this is the primping area, and I don't think the men's bathroom has it. Actually, I don't think the women's bathrooms on all the floors have primping areas. But I am lucky. I sit on a floor that has one.

As I walk into the bathroom, a few minutes ago, I enter to find a group of three chit-chatting. Seems normal you might think? It would be had one of those people not been of the male gender. Yup, a man in the woman's room. And to make matters odder, this guy was asking the other two women (and me as I walked in) which guys we thought were cute in the office. This gay tyke wanted to gossip about boys in the bathroom. Too funny! When I told him that there were sadly no cute men to ogle over all day long, he proceeded to tell us his office crush, Andrew.

I think Ali McBeal was onto something with the unisex bathrooms... work would be so much more interesting that way....

Your Profile Sucks

I admit it. I'm on Jdate. So is every other single Jew in the city, whether they admit to it, or hide their profile and deny it.

For whatever reason, as I scroll the hundreds (you get matched up to 500, FYI) of eligible dudes in the city, their profiles scream of cliches. Their chest-bearing pictured induce naseau. Day after day, I have to bite my tongue, or technically, hold my hands back from writing them and telling them just what exactly is wrong with their profile. But now that I have my own personal blog, I can spew forth all the pent up angst that has been building. Pent-up Profiling. This is going to be fun. So: Things That Make Your Profile Suck

1) You use the phrase "work hard and play hard" or worse, "work hard and play harder."

2) You feel the need to show pictures of you either topless, with another woman, or with you holding a baby. Yes, babies are cute. But you are trying to align with our biological clocks that are already ticking into overtime, and that is just plain mean.

3) You "can't believe you're doing this." Get over it, we all are. Don't you now that anyone who is anyone is doing it.

4) All your sentences start with "I." "I want to throw up all over you, how about that?!"

5) Your profile reeks with grammatical errors. "Alot" is two words damn it!! And there is a difference between their, they're and there.

6) You like women that are just as comfortable in a black tie dress as they are in jeans and a baseball cap. Personally, I like men that wear jeans with a black-tie jacket and a baseball cap.

7) You say you're funny. Back to my first bolg post. People who say they're funny aren't. Use another word- like unoriginal.

8) Your height, weight or age is listed in the paragraph describing yourself. Have some patience, dear profiler. If you scroll down to the next section, all your stats are listed. Saying them twice does not add that extra inch to your height.


Ok, this site is acting weird. I'll continue this list another time. Bye!

Thursday, March 10, 2005

An Oldie But Goodie

This happened many years ago, but the story is just too damn good to be true. This is, hands down, the worst blind double date I have ever gone on (and yes, the only one.)

I had recently joined "the system" (aka Jdate) and had been emailing back and forth with this guy Jesus (fake names are being used for the protection of all involved.) Jesus and I were excited to meet, but given that I-dating was relatively new, we each agreed to bring along a single friend. What a bad idea that was.

Upon the four of us meeting at The Elephant (nice restaurant Jesus picked,) my friend S was appalled at the guy brought for her. As soon as we were seated, S would not engage in coversation with the friend, Keanu, which was quite awkward as Jesus and I were hitting it off. To make matters worse, S disappeared to "go to the bathroom" for about ten minutes. Within seconds of her return, the waitress delivered a bubbly, golden drink to S, courtesy of the guy she had picked up at the bar when she claimed to removing a bubbly, golden bodily fluid. Oy.

It gets worse. S had a good friend's 30th birthday which she did not want to miss, and dinner was running long. Rather than be late to the party, S was adamant about leaving the date. After all, we had eaten, although the check had not yet arrived. We offered Jesus and Keanu money, they declined, we thanked them and left.

The next day I felt awful about eating and running and sent Jesus an apology email. I also apologized for S's behavior. His reply was anything but forgiving. Jesus said, "If you really want to be sorry about something, here are the top 10 things you should be sorry for." I won't divulge the entire list, but rather #1- Not Dying.

There is a lesson to be learned here: don't order the duck. It gave me a stomachache. : )

The Weirdest Habits of Dates- the Top 5

If you live in New York City and are single, chances are you have been on a date or two or four hundred and seventy-three. And if you ever watched Seinfeld you get a sense of just how neurotic us NYC daters are, or just how bad the pool of eligibles is. Probably a combination of both.

Anyway, having had one too many bouts of "singlehood" since I moved here almost ten years ago, I have had my share of dates. My dating stories alone are enough to write about on Does Debbie, but that is too cliche- another 30-something woman (and I am on the very low end of that range, all of you thinking I am 38 or so. Try 31) scorned, and getting back at her exes via the world wide web. Which has become the world wide whoa is me. Nope, none of that here. I am just going to share an occassional funny story here and then.

Which brings me to this story: The Weirdest Habits of Dates- the top 5

5. The guy who kept saying "like" between ever word. Sad when that comes out of a 25 year old's mouth

4. The guy that HAD to face the front of the restaurant where the windows were. Since he worked soooo many hours in his blah blah investment banking job, he never saw sunlight and needed it every chance he got.

3. The guy that tweezed. Hey, we're all fans of grooming. And the rule of less is more usually applies here. But it's a problem when the tweezers end up on a guy's eyebrows (and no, not talking about removing the unibrow, which is a must) and you have to bite your tongue from asking how he got such great arch.

2. The guy that walked too slow. Seriously. He was 6'2", so you'd think that each of his one steps would match 2 of mine. Make that 10 of mine. He really was too slow to go on a second date with.

1. The guy that had an impressive bookshelf in his bedroom. A concoction of classic fiction, history novels, and industry books. And 80's collection figures in front of the books. How is this weird you ask? On top of his books was his collection of lubricants. Yup, KY and Astroglide above JK Rowling and Astrology books.

The Randomness in My Life

Ok, this sucks. I just wrote an entire blog, introducing myself and giving you a purpose to return, and this stupid piece of shit site "was not responding" and I lost everything. Note to self: back up file before trying to publish.

Anyway, I will try to re-create what I wrote. Hello, welcome to my blog. As I am a year late on this bandwagon, I am going to try to create original postings for you. This is a work in progress, so please bear with me. Most likely, I will share with you the randomness in my life. After all, that is what makes me unique, and that is what will make you laugh. I'm not saying that I'm funny, because people who say that they're funny usually aren't. I just have funny things pass in and out of my life. Like gas. Just kidding.

Today's randomness takes the form on a vending machine. On every floor of my company lives the standard vending maching with an array of guiltless peanuts, has-been salty snacks (Munchos anyone?) and ass-expanding chocolate concoctions. Today, however, our vending maching had something else. The following sign taped on:

The row, not the drug