now cover your left eye...

there's a time in everyone's life in which they hook up with someone they probably should have otherwise steered clear. someone that causes you to wake up the next day and point a blaming finger at that whorish bottle of tequila. a co-worker, a friend's sibling, a friend's parent, a physician, a janitor at the gym.

in this case, it's an optometrist. and my friend kate.

enter kate. kate seems to get herself into these situations quite frequently. and by situations, i mean black-outs and make-outs that more often than not result in a pathetic attempt by the male participants of said black-outs and make-outs to pursue her shamelessly. ultimately leaving kate no choice but to pull the bitch card and ignore any and all form of communication from these gentlemen callers. no matter how hard they try. this was pretty much standard procedure for kate's four years at uc davis, and the post-college haze following.

one might ask exactly how this came to fruition. kate's gay best friend asked if it happened whilst in the chair, during the eye exam (she acted as though she was offended by the audacity of his inquiry, although if you knew kate, i'll be honest, it's justifiable). unfortunately, that's not exactly how it went (how awesome of a story would it have been if it did?). it actually went a little something like this:

after months of neglect, kate finally scheduled an eye appointment to renew her contact lens prescription. it just so happened the optometrist she had been seeing on the reg was out of town, thus leaving her in the hands of his back-up. it was nothing more than your run-of-the-mill optometry appointment. couple puffs in the eye. a few "what's the smallest row you can read?" some lies as kate cursed under her breath in trying to decipher those teeny, tiny letters and numbers (why the fuck do they make them so damn small and close together?) it wasn't until about half way through when dr. back-up finally said something:

dr. back-up: you look so familiar, do i know you?
kate: well, i don't live here. so. no. (kate, totally on par with being a raging bitch to strangers)
dr. back-up: oh, then do you have a sister?
kate: i mean, yeah, but she doesn't live here either. (really, kate. would it kill you to be nice one of these days?)
dr. back-up: did she go to uc davis?

fuck.

it turns out, mister optometrist recognized dear ol' kate, much to her embarrassment, from the greek-life social circuit. kate loosened up a bit, agreed to accept dr. back-up's facebook friend request (that at least happened in the exam room), snagged her new contact prescription, gathered whatever little pride she had left, and booked it out the door.

...but what about the make-out?

fast forward to a month later: kate was traveling for work. she remembered something about dr. back-up being in the area for the weekend, and, unsure of what exactly prompted her to do so, whipped out her handy dandy iphone and sent dr. back-up a message.

fast forward to 3 hours later: kate and dr. back-up were texting, making plans to meet up. ok, thought kate, i can totally be friends with an old college acquaintance who sometimes prescribes me eye drops when my allergies are acting up. totally normal, right? ...oooh, margarita special! 


fast forward to 2 hours later: kate by now had demolished 3 margaritas and 4 vodka sodas with some co-workers at a buy one get one free happy hour, still texting the optometrist (drunk texting should be a skill on her resume). i should totally go hang out with my old college bestie! he was actually really fun and cool at davis! and next thing she knew, was in a cab on the way to meet him.

fast forward to 1 hour later: kate and dr. back-up drinking beers and playing pool. boy am i glad dr. back-up is here, teaching me how to play pool. it's so nice of him to help me hold this stick and hit these balls. i'd be nowhere without him! look, he's even buying me more beer! a great guy AND a doctor. so what if he's an inch (or two) shorter than me. my mom would be so proud. he's been trying to make out with me for a while now. whatevs, i guess i'll let him. HEY MOM! I'M MAKING OUT WITH AN OPTOMETRIST! IN THE MIDDLE OF A BAR! AND WE'RE HOLDING POOL STICKS!


i'm not sure if it was the blinding lights of last call, or the fact that kate had an 8:30 a.m. plane to catch, but she suddenly realized it was time to bail. dr. back-up helped sloppy kate grab a cab, yet try as he might, he did not succeed in taking her home. kate dodged that bullet, kudos to her. and, true to kate form, also seemed to dodge all of the optometrist's consequent texts as well.

can't wait to hear how her follow-up eye appointment goes. probably won't be awkward in the least.

did i st-st-stutter?

online dating is seeing an overwhelming growth in popularity these days. i wish i could say i haven't participated, but unfortunately, it’s the territory when dealing with an overbearing jewish mother and grandmother. the thought that their worst nightmare (me not finding a nice Jewish husband to make nice Jewish babies) might become a reality, just adds fuel to their crazy-fire.

if my aforementioned jewish mother hadn’t offered to pay for the service, you can bet your bottom dollar i would not have agreed to partake. but, given my tendencies to revert back to my college ways, i wasn’t going to oppose the opportunity to get something for free.

and thus began my experience with jdate.

i still to this day don’t understand why any of the following would think I’d have been remotely interested in them:

• over 40
• gorilla-like hair from head-to-toe
• too short to ride a roller coaster at disneyland
• bald
• morbidly obese

and, yet, without fail, men with these unfortunate attributes continued to reach out. time and time again.

however, in spite of that, i will admit my jdate experience wasn’t as unbearable as i had originally anticipated (although i’d never confess that to my mother). of the few who had emailed me that i actually agreed to go out with, i suppose i didn't have the worst time. 

that is, until i met the stutterer...er. 

i wish someone had shared some online dating best practices with me prior to my experience because had that been the case, i'd have avoided this dreadful situation completely. my first mistake: not implementing a mandatory phone screening prior to accepting the date. the second: actually thinking this guy could be potentially normal.

his profile had me fooled. trickery, i tell you. on paper (er, screen) he fit all my criteria: 29 years old, 6'2, career driven, owns property in SF (aka dolla dolla bills, y'all), attractive, trendy, witty. he even dropped a sandlot reference in one of his messages (talk about the things that matter most). so, i have to say, i wasn't dreading this date as i had so much so the others in the past. dare i say i was even slightly... looking forward to it. i even put on my big gal shoes, ready to strut my stuff. 

and then he arrived. i was pleasantly surprised to learn his profile photos didn't even do him justice. "what a strapping young lad," i thought to myself as he approached me.

but just as quickly as my hopes had bubbled up, he opened his mouth. and they came crashing down around me.

this wasn't just your run-of-the-mill, every-day stutter. this was a complete debilitation of any form of communication. tens of seconds would go by in which he was trying to form a cohesive thought, and all that was left was silence and struggle. 

"WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?!" i cursed every form of higher being in my head, as i politely smiled and waited for him to spit out whatever god-forsaken thing it was he was trying to say. while at the same time, pinching myself underneath the table in order to maintain my cool.

in an attempt to overcome my superficiality (see, mom, i can give someone a chance), i agreed to a "quick" dinner following our drinks. the thing is, there really is no such thing as a "quick" dinner when you're dining with an individual with as bad a speech impediment as this one. i believe cher said it best: if i could turn back time, i would have given in to my shallowness (my better half) and gotten the fuck out of dodge.

needless to say, dinner was excruciatingly painful, at best. 

e-e-e-e-e-every. 

s-s-s-s-s-s-s-ingle. 

s-s-s-s-s-s-sentence. 

a-a-a-a-a-a. 

h-h-h-h-h-hurdle. 

the date ended with a simple hug goodbye, and the entire district of north beach witnessing a blond gal in heels run for dear life.

...but don't feel too bad for me. i did walk away with a half bottle of wine that we were unable to finish at dinner. and for that, the tally is: michelle 1. jdate 0.

canadian? more like canadi-can’t.

there are some nights that escalate so quickly, you’re not even quite sure the events that transpired were in fact real life. while my intentions are typically to avoid going from 0 to 60, i can’t say that i’m mad when it happens. that is, until someone ends up in bed with a canadian.

it seems to be an ongoing trend among my friends as of late to end up at a place called hi-fi. those of you who are lucky enough to live in the amazing city of San Francisco can empathize that a night concluding at the hi-est of fi-s can only mean one thing: blackout city. not visiting the township. not circling the burbs. but full on residency.  and as much as we all collectively curse the inception of that establishment, with the exception of my friend steve, we are drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

hi-fi is best known for the following:

·     marina douche-bag clientele: “yo bro, check out my popped collar, bro. i’m too hot to handle with my sunglasses on inside, bro.”

·     wannabe DJs that think spinning top 40 hits makes them dirty beats.

·      the beyond sweaty dance floor, where 8^th grade freak-dancing makes a comeback,

·      and last, but definitely not least, the sloppy make-out.

this particular night, one of us happened to be guilty of encompassing all of the above. and her name, for the sake of this story, is phoebe. 

somehow, driven by a power greater than her, phoebe was convinced to meet up with her pals at hi-fi; of course, steve being one of them (i swear that guy lives there).  already inebriated enough to ignore her lack of judgment, phoebe agreed to take a shot that she’s almost positive was hot pink. then, double-fisting their beer, phoebe and company pushed through the slop-tastic crowd and made their way to the dance floor. hi-fi definitely resembles somewhat of a bermuda triangle: time, judgment and dignity seem to completely disappear. and in pure hi-fi fashion, whilst phoebe was on the dance floor feeling oh-so-sexy, a boy, clad in a fancy suit, grabbed phoebe by the hands and began to boogie.

phoebe’s inner-monologue at this moment, i can only assume, went a little something like this:

OK. he’s cute, tall, and wearing a suit. who goes out in a suit on a friday night? a little weird. oh, now he’s spinning me around. that’s kind of fun. and now we’re making out. alright, i’ll go with it. where did this guy come from? OUCH, he just bit my lip. that’s weird. and yet, i’m still making out with him. is he wearing a suit? oh shit, last call. damnit, don’t turn on the lights! i still need to chug my beer. OMG, i’m so sweaty. wait, stop trying to hold my hand, i/m chugging my beer! ok, beer is done, now you can escort me out of the bar. i should probably tell Steve i’m leaving, in case this kid tries to kidnap me, or something.

and then they were in a cab, headed to his place. it was at this point phoebe realized she didn’t even know the kid’s name. “do you have a name?” she asks as he pays the cab. of course, the answer was yes, but that’s neither here nor there. it’s not like phoebe remembers anyways. what she does remember, was a) pretending to be a cougar, in spite of the fact this kid was her age (“OMG, you’re only 25. you’re SOOOO young!”), and b) riding an elevator. an elevator that opened up into his home. who doesn’t love a baller in a suit with a penthouse? i know phoebe doesn’t.

oh, it didn’t end there. apparently the castle that phoebe had stumbled upon with this stranger in a suit had rooftop access overlooking the entire city. so, obviously, phoebe made out with him on the roof… topless.

the next morning, fully equipped with a tequila and hot pink drink hangover, phoebe peeled open her eyeballs, and rolled over to see a half naked sleeping man (what happened to the suit?) and… a canadian passport.

needless to say, that was all it took for her to grab her clothes and try to bolt, without first fighting off the canadian for some morning playtime. 

no chance.

she got out of there as quickly as her hangover would allow, never making the mistake of overlooking screening her suitor’s citizenship again.