Explosive Part 2

Alright, as a follow up to the most embarrassing post I've written to date, I would like to fill y'all in on a little bitch called Karma. She's out there, people, and she's waiting to bite you in the ass. Literally.

So you remember the super cute Aussie who left me hanging in the bathroom with nary a second phone call in sight? Well fast forward one week to a Friday night in the theatre. A regular, everyday, ordinary night where I'm working box office and things seem as they should be. Until Aussie walks in. With a girl.

She looks like any other girl. Tallish. Blondish. Attractivish. A generic 80's name. Non-descript style. Nothing special is what I'm saying. I'm not trying to be harsh or anything, she just wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Or a mirror, for that matter.

Point being, I ask (with my biggest, brightest smile) how long they've known each other and she (innocently) tells me they've been dating since New Year's.

Excuse me??? Dude, we were just out like a week ago. I understand that it ended badly but you couldn't have known that going in!!! Maybe I came off as friendly and non-threatening, thus he didn't even consider me a date?!?! Or perhaps they're just "seeing each other" as we've already established that he's leaving the hemisphere in a few months. Am. Having. An. Identity. Crisis.

Breathe....Relax....Slow Down....Think....Stay Calm....Keep Cool....Just Smile....

Phew, they've gone into the theatre. I am alone with my vivid imagination and interminable self-doubt for at least another hour before they re-emerge.

Except he pops back out 10 minutes after the show has started to "use the loo."

*How come everything sounds cuter in a foreign accent, even using the potty???*

He's been in there for a while...perhaps I should check on him? Nah...

He goes back into the theatre. Can now stop worrying if my lip gloss has remained intact.

He's back out again. What the fuck??? It's been at least 10 more minutes that he's been in the loo the second time in half an hour and I'm starting to worry. Alright, I'm going to check on him.

(Knocks on door.) "Hey, are you ok in there?"

Him: "Yeah, I think I just ate something funny at dinner. My stomach isn't really agreeing with me right now."

Me: "Do you want me to get you some water?"

Him: "That would be amazing, actually."

(Gets water. Passes it to him through a slight opening in the door.) "Do you want some Mentos? Mint is supposed to calm the tummy."

Him: Yeah, that'd be superb, if you've got'em."

(Gets Mentos out of purse. Passes through crack in door again whilst holding breath because Oh. My. God. the smell...)

I go back to my little box office and wait. He eventually emerges and crashes out on the sofa next to my table. He looks (and smells) like death. I ask if he'll be ok and he says he's feeling much better. I ask if what's-her-face will be ok in there without him. He tells me he's sure she's fine, she was chatting with someone in the row next to them before the show and they got on nicely. So she's not alone or anything.

But she doesn't come out to check on him AT ALL and the boy was sick for nearly an hour. What kind of girlfriend is that?!?!

The moral of the story is this: If you are the kind of boy who makes my heart flutter and you happen to be with me at the unfortunate moment when I discover that I am now lactose intolerant and I have a major intestinal breakdown and then you abandon me, thus shattering all future heart flutterings...then you show up with a girlfriend you never mentioned...you will be struck down with Montezuma's Revenge before my very eyes.

Of course, I'm a nice enough (read: stupid enough) person where I'll take care of you even when your generic date does not, in the futile hopes that this will make you want to be with me. I will still be shocked and sad when said tactic fails to engage. Alas, my sweet kangaroo, you are on your own from here-on-out. Enjoy the milkshake.

Wurd fur Wurd

Here is an update for all of you following the ridiculousness that is TheHotman28. Here is the actual transcript of our emails back and forth. If ANYONE can make sense of a single thing he says, please, please translate it for me because I am completely and utterly lost.

*Sidenote to the reader* I know that I'm not technically meeting this one in person as he makes me fear for my life, however to any purists who claim that this encounter does not qualify as a cup I say this: He makes my brain hurt enough that I'm granting a handicap to myself. It counts, people. Get over it.

From the beginning:

how are you doing l'm latin and italian from nyc ny l'm 6'2 tall man 200lb what l do l'm executive marketing manager on wall street manhattan if you interested into a great deeply conversation without hesitation you can sent me a email

well in the first date get to know the person to know the acts & actions and how the person exspress and for her to get to know me also and feel secure and comfortable in the palms in the beach & and take trips to check the city to get in on the boat to check the statue liberty l think its what ever she into and what ever the men is into have to be a agreement between each one is all depend just agree and the terms and conditions otherwise 50%50

Thank you for the messages but I'm not interested. Have a great day :-)

why not interested you the only one that have say that like that l swear

Absolutely nothing you say makes any sense whatsoever. Your entire profile is practically unreadable. Not only are you grammatically incorrect, but completely incoherent. I can't even respond to your message because it's hardly recognizable as English. But I still hope you have a great day :-)

l will never in my life going be you enemy you came at me hard like if l did something like if l was you enemy you such a bad woman and rude don't blame me whoaaoo is like that ok you have a great day too kisses and hugs anyway thanxs for not gave me the chance to get to knew you mmmuua

Thank you for further proving my point. Seriously, dude...it's called punctuation. Try it sometime.

PS: ***Wall Street marketing executive MY ASS!!!***

Word for Word

Can someone please translate this for me??? I don't speak stupid.

how are you doing l'm latin and italian from nyc ny l'm 6'2 tall man 200lb what l do l'm executive marketing manager wall street manhattan if you interested into a great deeply conversation without hesitation you can sent me a email

well in the first date get to know the person to know the acts and how the person exspress and for her to get to know me also and feel secure and comfortable in the palms in the beach & and and take trips to check the city to get in on the boat to check the stautue liberty l think its what ever she into also cus she probably don't like the places and for not make me feel bad say yes yes otherwise 50%50

Do Not Discuss

I am, by nature, an inquisitive person. I ask a lot of questions, really thoughtful ones, so that I can better get to know the people in my life. The bigger things in life might make up the majority of who we are but I believe that the little details, the smallest, seemingly insignificant minutiae truly define us. As dating is essentially the process of getting to know someone to determine whether or not you want to spend more time with them, I like to dig in a little deeper right away. I'm not chipping away at the surface for days on end anymore. It's time to start digging for nuggets of gold right off the proverbial bat.

Big mistake. HUGE mistake.

I manage to get myself a lecture on the things one must never discuss. That which shall not be named. The Voldemort of dating, if you will. What are these forbidden topics, you ask? Religion, politics, money and sex. Can't talk about them. Ever. With anyone. It's rude, crass, unseemly and disconcerting for everyone involved.

Wait a minute, what?!?! So what are we allowed to talk about? Music? Yes. Movies? Yes. TV? Yes. (As long as they are not controversial songs / shows.) Family? No. One must never discuss family with anyone who is not actually family. Education? No, for those who have it wouldn't want to make anyone who doesn't uncomfortable in their own skin and those who don't have it wouldn't want to make the educated feel guilty about their knowledge or success. What the hell is left??? Road works?!?!

Seriously, have we somehow devolved back to Victorian England where the only polite topic of conversation is the weather? Women were suppressed into marrying men after several conversations revolving around wind storms and sun beams, not knowing any real facts about them at all. I believe that Jane Austen would be (for lack of a better term) royally pissed off if she knew that this social atrocity had come full circle around.

Forgive me, but I believe that Miss Austen (who never married btw) and I would agree on this one thing: it is impossible to love a man when all you know about him is that he thinks it will rain on Thursday.

Time Share

He is what my mother would call, a promising prospect. Factors leading up to this decision are as follows: he's tall, no kids, has his own place / car / job, has no *known* mommy issues, and makes $150,000+ per year.

I have to tell you that salary is not the first quality I look for in a man. Attractive, self-sufficient, considerate, romantic, intelligent and funny are all on my top list of priorities. But paycheck? Never occurred to me.

Until my mother pointed out the dating website www.wealthymen.com

I know what you're thinking. Gold digger's dream come true. Men must have their salaries verified while girls must have only their appearance verified. Yup, you read that right. If you wanna meet a man who can afford to take you wherever you want to go, you better believe he has the right to make sure you are really cute. Think about it: who wants an ugly trophy wife? No one. Best leave that trophy home on the mantle piece. I'm taking out a hot blonde trophy instead!

I know what you're thinking. But Kim, you ARE a hot blonde!!! (Modest, aren't I???) And yet, I did not make the cut for a premium listing on wealthymen.com. The reason? Not one of my profile pictures shows cleavage, but I'm welcome to take new photos and reapply. *Sigh*

As I am unwilling to pimp myself out like a soft core porn star for a night on the town with someone simply because they can afford it, I sulked back to my FREE dating sites. Yes, I said FREE. (I know a good deal when I see one!) Lo and behold, there was a message waiting there for me and it was from a man whose salary read $100,000 - $150,000 per year. Ho. Ly. Crap... Motherload!!!!

I would like to add at this point in the story that he also had nice pictures, a stable family life and no grammatical errors in his emails. None. (Score one for spell check!)

We meet in the city and he takes me for a walk down 5th Avenue. For those of you non-New Yorkers, this is like the Rodeo Drive of the East Coast. Shopping, shopping, and more shopping, NONE of which a full time writer such as myself could afford. Yet this was his home turf. He was happy to have me by his side, chatting away as afternoon turned to evening, looking in every shop window, commenting on what he thought I'd look good in. (Not gay. I don't think.)

We come to the corner where Tiffany meets Cartier and he asks me which I prefer. Seeing as I have a bit of a Holly GoLightly complex where my jewels are on a $10 budget, I say Tiffany's. (Bonus points if you get the Audrey Hepburn reference. Put the movie on your Netflix NOW if you don't!)

I don't have a clue about Cartier aside from it being, for lack of a better word, posh. He jokes and says he just wants to know where to shop for me...you know...in the future...the way distant future... Apparently his last girlfriend was very particular about jewelry and demanded certain things from certain stores with certain labels. I'm SO not like that. I'm the exact opposite of that. He mentions having to sell the ring he'd gotten his previous fiancee. (He had a broken engagement a year and a half ago. Found her in bed when he got home. With another man. Gross.) I exclaim that he should sell the ring right now and we'll take a trip to the Bahamas. His words to me: "Honey, when I sell this ring, we could take 12 trips to the Bahamas."

No joke.

He goes on: "But why would you want to go to the Bahamas when my time share is in the Dominican Republic?"

I'm sorry, could you repeat that please? I seem to have birds singing in my ears.

"Yeah, I've got a time share in the DR, Spain, and a couple other places around the world. I can choose 6 weeks pretty much any place I like. So where would you want to go?"

Speechless. Absolutely speechless. This is a man who wouldn't let me pay for my own iced tea off of a cart which 5 minutes ago I thought was generous. But vacations around the world? Eat that wealthymen.com!!!!!

We walk another block in silence as I absorb what he's told me so far. We sit for a moment in front of the Plaza Hotel, one of the coolest spots in the city. I stare dreamily into the distance when he asks what I'm thinking. I say that someday, I would like to have afternoon tea at the Plaza. It's been my vision for a while now. He asks when I'd like to do it. I tell him probably for a special occasion, like my 30th birthday or something. (Shudder thinking about it.) He says "No, when would you like to do it? My time share extends to the Plaza. I'm sure we could stay there and have tea whenever you like. Just let me know so I can make reservations."

Hello?!? First date!?!

Before I can interject this logic he politely offers, "You'd have your own room, of course." Then he shyly looks away.

Hmmm, there may be something to these men with money. Stay tuned kids!!!

Explosive

This is the most embarrassing blog post I've ever had to write so strap on your seat belts. It's going to be a ridiculous ride!!!

Who doesn't love a milkshake??? Ice cream blended with milky goodness, all frappe'd up into a deliciously smooth, silky drink. Perfection in a cup. Especially from Shake Shack in New York City. Can you believe that I only recently discovered this foodie haven? I don't eat burgers and a fry is a fry...but a milkshake? Now that's what I'm talking about!!!

Every month Shake Shack changes their daily flavor and my personal favorite in April was Nutter Butter (peanut butter and marshmallow --- what's not to love?!?!) In May it was Gianduja, a Peruvian blend of hazelnut praline and chocolate. Think of it as a Nutella milkshake. This is the stuff dreams are made of. I promise you, if you haven't already been there, you MUST try it. Which is precisely how I ended up there with my phenomenal "cup".

I say phenomenal and I use that term so rarely, I feel that I must clarify the statement. He's tall, gorgeous, incredibly smart, funny, sweet, and Australian (yes ladies, that means accent). We have established how I feel about men with accents, yes? We met at an improv class and I teased him about how long he could keep up the fake accent. He assured me it was real, unlike my English accent which I can bounce around for no more than a few sentences. The funny thing was, living in England for 4 years made me THINK in an English accent, yet I was always completely astonished when I opened my mouth and this American voice came out. Everyone at home thought I sounded sooooo British yet everyone abroad spotted me off as a Yankee from a mile away (or in their case, a kilometer.)

I told him of my travels in London and the world being a small place after all, he tells me that we both worked in Covent Garden at the same time. Ho. Ly. Crap. I must follow up with this one. So we exchange Facebook information (which thank goodness for, otherwise I wouldn't know how to talk to people) and decide to meet up in the park the following week.

Fast forward to the present time: he's never been to or even heard of Shake Shack despite having spent the last 7 months in New York. I insist that this place is an institution which simply cannot be missed (avoiding the mention that I only discovered it a month ago and I've lived here my entire life.) I remind my inner voices to stop planning an international wedding as he is leaving the States at the end of the year, and frankly, I don't want to get attached to any more foreigners. I have an up-to-date passport and visa so I COULD live just about anywhere...

I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to the park.

Madison Square Park is one of those overlooked Manhattan treasures which you should definitely put on your list of places to spend an afternoon in at your earliest convenience. It's only a few blocks away from my theatre but I inevitably walk down 7th from Penn to Chelsea. The day I took 5th instead changed my life. The intersection of 5th & Broadway is breathtaking. No matter how many times I meander down those boulevards, it never ceases to impress me. There is always something new to see, something I didn't notice before. It's a place you can go to just stop and let the world continue spinning around you. Which is exactly how I felt sitting across the table from my Aussie companion. Like the world was happening on every side of us but we were somehow in a protected bubble of intrigue, attraction and new hope.

He showed up in a suit (fresh from work) and looked dapper. There is no other word for it. Jacket, tie, really long pointy umbrella. Dapper. Definitely dapper. We ordered our milkshakes and he confesses he's been searching all over this island for something malted to no avail. Search no further my friend, it's right here on the menu. We pick a table near the fountain and people watch for a few moments. I could normally make a whole day out of this game but right now, there is only one person I'm interested in and he's sitting right across from me sipping his vanilla malted.

We chat about everything. His time in New York, what life is like back home, my living in Europe, our shared time in Covent Garden, family, friends, improv, theatre, money, politics, sports, music, apartments, furniture, books... I got so lost in the conversation that I didn't even realize how much time had passed. Or how badly I had to go to the bathroom.

We are not talking about a Level One alert here people. We are talking about a Code Black. Khaki pants, middle of the park, sudden realization that I've become lactose intolerant... Oh yeah. It was BAD.

I tune out to almost everything he says after that. I look around for a Starbucks, a bar, a restaurant, a store I can duck into to relieve the cramps in my stomach. There is nothing. I start shaking. Chills. Sweats. Feverishly feeling my entire body begin to shut down. The gurgling coming from the depths of my intestines is so loud that I swear half of Manhattan can hear it. He politely chatters on about the value of money and importance of success and I can see his mouth moving but all I hear is "wah...wah wah wah... wah wah.. wah... wah wah..." I need an out. Quickly. But I don't want him to think I don't like him. What do I do??? What do I do???

I fake a foot cramp. Have to get up and stretch. And of course, walk it off. Which is why I'm walking kinda funny. Sort of hunched over-y. For 5 blocks. 5 blocks which feels like forever because I am sure I am going to die any moment from milkshake overload. And if I don't die right here on the street, I will die of embarrassment once he realizes I'm about to shit in my khaki pants. The article will read: Kimberly Spice died of embarrassment today when she got explosive diarrhea at 4 in the afternoon at the intersection of 21st and 5th. Her death was reported by a dapper Australian fellow holding a malted vanilla milkshake. He claims not to have known the victim very long, saying that this was their first (and obviously last) date.

Epilogue: Fortunately for all, this story has a (somewhat) happy ending. I made it to a bathroom eventually but despite the great beginning to our date, the dapper Aussie hasn't called me again. I can't really say I'm surprised. I guess for once, my date was wondering what was wrong with me! Can safely say that milkshakes in the park is off my list for future cups. As are khaki pants.

Drawn & Quartered

So we've already established that I love Southern boys. Gimme a cute guy on horseback wearing jeans and speaking with a drawl any day of the week. No offense, Long Island boys, you're just kinda boring in comparison to these cobbler eating kings. You can imagine how happy I am when I strike up a conversation with a sweet Southerner (which I deduce right away from his accent). It's a beautiful day in the park and I feel like talking to strangers. Something in the air makes me feel like this is gonna be a good day to meet somebody. Maybe it's the summer heat, the impromptu jazz in the streets, or the fact that my hair is behaving nicely. Could be a combination of all of the above. I am brazen today.

I smile and ask him where he's from. He says "the South." I ask whereabouts (one of my favorite words) and he replies "the South of the South."

Wow, ok so really, REALLY Southern. Got it.

He asks where I'm from and I tell him: Long Island. He wants to know if I live anywhere near the Amityville horror house. Now, I know I'm a bad Long Islander for admitting this but I've never been anywhere near the horror house. I don't even know the details of the stupid place (though I will probably Google it when I'm done writing this post.) Apparently, some mass murder happened there like a million years ago and it was really tragic and everyone knows about it but me. On my list of things I'd mention about Long Island: the Hamptons, the beaches, the malls, the parkways, the lighthouses, the Big Duck, Splish Splash... but the Amityville horror house??? That just wouldn't be something I'd talk about, but it's the only thing he has to relate to me, so here we go.

I respond that I live only a few towns away from Amityville, I have a friend who teaches in the town, and it's a very pretty community. He says "No, you wanna know something? You ain't got nothing on horror. You want a real scary story? You come on down South. We got real scary shit in the South."

Alright, now I'm scared. He continues before I can check my watch, fake a rescue call and run away. (Please forgive the following transcription: it is written in the vernacular.)

"This one house down the road a bit from where I grew up, right, it was a plantation and the owners, they had all these slaves, right, so they decided they didn't want the slaves getting too close to each other and marrying and stuff but there were so many of them, right, so they take all the men slaves, right, and they sell them off to other plantation owners, right, and the womenfolk, they're pissed, right, so they decide they're gonna kill off all the childrens, right, and so they poison like fifty kids, right, including their own kids, so the plantation owners have nobody to work the fields or in the houses or stuff, right, so the master of the house, he decides to kill the women too, right, only he doesn't just poison 'em, no, no, he hangs 'em up by the necks right outside the house, as a warning to other slaves and stuff who might be thinking of running away or doing something stupid, right, and he makes their husbands watch and their children that they hadn't killed yet, and they all just standing around watching these women die, right, only they don't let 'em die, no, no, not yet, they hang 'em til they almost dead and then they cut 'em down real quick and draw and quarter them, right, like in England where they did, you know how they used to do, but they take all their entrails and bowels and stuff and they burn 'em in a huge fire and they throw all the body parts on the fire and then they make the other slaves cook dinner over that fire and eat their meal from it."

*Pause for breath*

"See, I told you we got some scary shit in the South. I bet you ain't never heard a story like that before."

*Insert rescue call here*

So, who wants to go to Amityville?

Do u got...

He messages me first with a wink, then a real email. It's short, simple, to the point.

Hey, I think ur pretty. Would luv to chat sometime.

Ok, fine, I will try to ignore the fragments of grammatical laziness in that sentence and focus on the rest of his profile. I respond with a thanks for the wink and some generic questions. He tells me he's 30, lives alone in a condo he bought last year, has 2 sisters who live in towns nearby, and he works full time. Good start.

Then I get this:

wat do u do 4 work

wat time do u work
wats ur fav movie, music, food, color
do u drive
do u got any tats or piercings

hav u ever been arrested
do u got nice feet
do u get ya nails done

I'm sorry, since when are manicures a prerequisite for dating? What exactly constitutes "nice feet"? And how come every man who messages me can't seem to form a coherent sentence or for that matter, type out a THREE LETTER WORD?!?!?!?! I know I've said this before people and I'm sorry to harp on it. But if you can't be bothered, then neither can I.

In case you're wondering, here are the answers to those questions (a reply he never got):

I'm a writer. I date losers for a living.

What time? Whenever I can fit them into my busy schedule of sleeping in and pedicures.

Favorite movie: Princess Bride, Spaceballs, Clue, Goonies

Favorite music: country, jazz, Rat Pack, swing

Favorite food: anything Italian and anything chocolate

Favorite color: almost any shade of blue

Yes, I drive. I'm a grown up.

No tattoos and no piercings (other than my ears cause I'm a girl and it's normal)

No, I've never been arrested. (I don't even wanna ask him the same question)

Yes, I have gorgeous feet (see previous entry: shoe guy...photos in the Scallywag article!)

Oh, and yes, I do get my nails done. But he doesn't need to know that. Freak waiting to happen!!!

Georgia (not so peachy)

The first three reasons I think we'll have a connection are as follows:

1) He's an electrician (like my dad)

2) His name is Doug (like my dad AND my brother)

3) He's from Georgia, possibly my favorite state in the Union (just behind New York, of course.)

I've always wanted to be "from" Georgia. Which is not possible, I know, as I was born and raised a New Yorker. I am now and will always be a Big Apple girl. But there's something about the Peachy state of Georgia that feels like home. Perhaps it's the Southern air, the Southern attitude, the Southern sweet tea. Maybe cause it's the home of Paula Deen, my idol and reigning queen of all things butter. Or it could simply be that I long for the peaceful serenity of a Southern life. Long, lazy days spent on a rocking chair, sipping something cool and refreshing while reading a good book. Chomping down delicious biscuits and gravy or a fruity cobbler, watching the sunset from the comfort of my wraparound porch. This is what I yearn for and will never find "up North" as it just isn't part of Long Island culture. I have gone so far as to consider moving down there to a town called Peach Bottom (cutest name EVER) in search of a tall boy with denim jeans and a drawl who shares my appreciation for country music and treats a lady with respect. (Lord knows I haven't found him on this rock! Maybe better luck below the Mason-Dixon line???)

So you can imagine my exultation when a good looking, 6'4 boy writes to me with a "Hey miss, how y'all doin?" and tells me he's been living amongst the Yankees for 11 years but is a Georgia boy at heart. He loves Clint Black and sweet tea and Cracker Barrel and it's a match made in heaven! He wants to exchange recipes for banana pudding and monkey bread and some other Southern shit even I've never heard of. (Google "divinity". You'll thank me later.)

We swap several emails and talk on the phone over the weekend. His momma (yes'm) is visiting for the holiday and she sees my picture on his computer. She says I'm beautiful. He tells her at this point beautiful is an insult. I am stunning. (Swoon.)

He tells me that I'm a breath of fresh air like mint sweet tea on a hot Georgia day. (Double swoon.)

He tells me that his best friend back home just built his new bride a single story house with a wraparound porch as tall and as wide as the house itself. He can't wait to do that for his wife someday. (What time is City Hall open until? I'm marrying this one!!!)

Well hold your horse and carriage right there buddy. It ain't over til the redneck sings.

First of all, 6'4 is tall. Really tall. I know I said I didn't wanna date any more short men but damn...this is overkill. He goes to hug me hello and ... I'm sorry ... is that an erection??? In the first 30 seconds??? Seriously???

Wow, ok, so that was awkward, let's move on, shall we?!?!

Hmmm, it's kind of easy to forget about the spontaneous erection when I focus on his face. I guess I didn't notice that he's not smiling in any of his photos. Perhaps it's because his teeth make the British look like they've got full dental coverage in their health plans. His teeth are yellow, crooked, sideways, stacked behind one another and somehow, several are missing on at least one side. You know those creepy jack-o-lanterns? He makes me wanna kiss one of those. It'd be less creepy.

You can do this, Kimberly. Just smile and keep walking. Keep walking. Keep walking.

As you've all heard by now, my motto is "Welcome to New York. Keep up or get out of the way." I'm not saying I'm going to shove slow tourists off the sidewalk, but that doesn't mean I don't want to! Yet this boy moved slower than he talked and I instantly regretted the 19 block walk we were now facing. What should have been a 10 - 15 minute walk took over half an hour. In 90 degree heat. U-g-h... H-e... w-a-s... s-o... s-l-o-w...

I will not pull my own hair out. I will not pull my own hair out. I will not pull my own hair out.

To keep me in pace with him (instead of trying to keep up with me) he held my hand. Dude, first date. Back off.

To make things more entertaining, there are obstacles on every corner. People taking pictures. People selling $5 pocketbooks. People preaching about Jesus or the homeless or women's rights. People wanting to draw a caricature of you in Times Square. Something. But the people we encountered today were handing out flyers on every corner. Flyers for who knows what and who really cares but flyers just the same. Any self-respecting New Yorker can spot these annoyances a block in advance and will go out of their way to avoid them. Politely decline. Shake their head no. Cross the street just to get away. You get the idea. Georgia boy took anything and everything people handed him.

I joked that while he'd been a Yankee for 11 years, he sure acted like a tourist. Did he really need 3 copies of a flyer for Psychic Readings by Sara??? "No, baby, I'm looking at my future right here." Looks at me. (No swoon.)

I saw on his profile that he loves animals and the zoo. Seeing as the Central Park Zoo is a little known treasure, I decided to take him there. (Yes, I know, I planned another date, but it's MY city and he was SO clueless.) He had told me over the phone that he's a member of the Conservation Society which means he gets free passes to this CPZ. Double bonus points for a free date, right? Wrong. He left the membership card at home on the counter. Crap.

Oh well, by the time he'd navigated the subway system and we'd walked for what felt like f-o-r-e-v-e-r, it was 4:30 anyway (not 3:00 like we'd planned to meet) and they were done selling tickets for the day. On to Plan B...

We'd also talked about how we both love board games, card games, etc. He told me that his father taught him how to play chess many years ago and how to this day, he's never beaten his dad. My mom taught me how to play checkers and I've yet to win a match. So what more perfect way to spend an afternoon than at the Chess & Checkers house, conveniently located a 3 minute walk away from the now-closed zoo. I do plan ahead! I even brought us a checkers set and he "let" me win 3 out of 4 matches. That last game, he played really hard and it was a close one. I lost, but still, it was close. I promise. (Mom!)

Things that went horribly wrong during the game of checkers:

He described (in vivid detail) a blister he once had. I'll spare you the traumatizing details. I wish someone had done that for me.

He was in the army many years ago and proceeded to regale me with stories of people who died during basic training. Died.

He bet that he was paler than me and lifted his shirt up to prove it. (Note, unless you do abs, please don't take your shirt off in public. We don't need to afflict the masses with your flabby pastiness.)

He talked about how hard it was for him to live in NY with all the turd-burglars and poopy pirates. Those are slang terms for gay men, just so you don't have to look it up on Urban Dictionary like I did. Yes, I know I'm naive. That's why "there's an app for that."

Last but certainly not least, he picked his nose. Full on, pointer finger, digging for gold, picked it. Then he proceeded to roll the booger between his thumb and forefinger into a perfectly shaped ball, all the better to flick you with, my dear.

And then he tried to hold my hand...again. Back off Booger Fingers!!!

I offered him my Sweet Pea hand sanitizer and texted 2 friends for an immediate rescue call.

We parted at the subway and I ran (literally) to meet up with another writer friend who is interviewing me for exactly this purpose. He wants to type up an article on how my project is going. Well, I have so far survived 57 of these "cups" and I'm pretty sure I will soon be sending the results to the Department of Homeland Security. They're always looking for creative new ways to torture people, right? Erections, boogers and turd burglars. Pretty sure the Army would have a field day with that one!

But at least I won at checkers.