veal.

the new phenomenon lately seems to be the correlation between wild animals and their human counterparts. for example:


*cougar
*puma
*bear
*baby cub
*fox


you get the idea.


however, it occurred to me a while back, there really isn't a sufficient animal name for a bro who's significantly your junior. and that, my friends, is how we came up with: veal.


the inception of veal, as you can imagine, has a story behind it.


a group of my college pals and i make an annual trek back to penn state for a brief hiatus from reality to jump down the rabbit hole into full-on college absurdity. itinerary for these weekends is usually as follows:


- drink massive amounts of alcoholic beverages, continuously, throughout the entire 
  weekend
- buy plastic fangs from CVS and accessorize accordingly at the bars
- go to a gay dive bar and get hit on by lesbians
- hitchhike through state college and enjoy a late night meal with the driver
- tailgate
- fail to attend the actual football game due to level of intoxication (and lack of tickets)
- dance parties in inappropriate places
- squeeze 7 gals into one super8 motel room
- eat late night pita pit (sometimes 2x in one night)
- send fexts (a fext, for those who are unaware, is a text message containing a photograph of 
  food, or most often, you eating said food)
- complain about going to indigo, but secretly love it
- take creepy self-timer photos around campus in the dark when no one else is around


again, you get the idea.


this particular trip was even more unique in that we all made a pact to hook up. but not just with any type of bro. but a bro who is still enrolled in college. and alas, one of us succeeded. and that one of us is "jane" (a gal never veals and tells).


in the aforementioned itinerary above, you'll notice a place called indigo. for those who aren't lucky enough to be penn state alum, indigo is a bar downtown that's gone through a couple makeovers. prior to being indigo, it was players nightclub. and none of us one would have ever been caught dead at players. unless we happened to be one of the 5 black people that went to penn state. but, the best thing you could do for a bar in state college, pennsylvania, is change the name and instigate a $1 drink special before midnight, and you have PSU's greek life in its entirety lining up down the block. and as real-world, hard-working women living in some of the most expensive cities in the universe, we jumped at the opportunity for $1 drinks like a puma on her prey. 


needless to say, it didn't take much for all of us to put on some heavy duty booze goggles. with multiple drinks in hand, we made our way to the dance floor to find our victims. ready to uphold our pact.


after a while of getting weird (there may or may not have been some peanuts dancing involved), we realized jane was nowhere to be found. one of the gals said she saw jane getting down on the dance floor. with a *young* lad. a tad worried, but mostly filled with jealousy, we decided to text jane to see where she ran off to. here is the conversation:


us: u should leave now
jane: going to hotel. bring me food.CFO
jane: xo
us: wha
jane: just **** ****
us: pmg to who


totally literate. 


well, here is what really happened:


jane meets veal on the dance floor.
jane dances with veal on the dance floor.
jane makes out with veal on the dance floor.
jane and veal leave indigo.
jane and veal stumble down college ave trying to find a cab.
jane and veal hitchhike at a gas station.
jane and veal end up at the super8 motel on atherton blvd. 
jane and veal... do stuff.
jane makes veal leave.
jane orders pokey sticks from gumbys. and yes, they still had her phone number on file.
happy valley is now happy endings.


oddly enough, jane is actually a vegetarian.

the trifecta of gay.

i'm often approached with questions and concerns around the dating scene in san francisco. it's justifiable, seeing as though i've heard gals outnumber men 2:1 in this city. (i swear i didn't take it upon myself to google that statistic. it just so happens i had a very helpful, and knowledgeable, cab driver the other day). but, apparently, my grandma is aware of this ratio (or she just has an aptitude for mathematics) and makes it a point at least once a month to call me and preach, "too many faygalas in san francisco, michelle. too many faygalas." for those of you who might not have a knack for yiddish, or who might be unfamiliar with harvey milk, san francisco is known for its robust gay population.


many ask if it's challenging to meet straight guys in the city. well, it's clearly not, given the nature of this blog. some folks ask if i've ever been in a situation in which i've hit on, or been hit on, by a man with same sex tendencies. apparently they're under the preconceived notion that every guy you meet out at a bar is gay. and the answer had been no.


...until isaac. 


i have my dear friend sara to thank for the isaac mishap of 2012. don't get me wrong, i appreciate sara's devotion to being an otherwise flawless wing-woman. however, in this case, i could have definitely done without.


also, while we're on the subject, i'd like to stress once again that I LOVE THE GAYS. so much so that my sister and her friends think it necessary to joke about me being a lesbian. sorry to disappoint, but in spite of me bringing my best friend (and soulmate) lisa as my date to more than one wedding and almost every family affair, having an unfeminine-like obsession with sports, hanging out predominantly with dudes, and owning a denim vest as a part of my actual wardrobe, this is in no way the truth. honestly.


so back to isaac. in true mama form, i was drunkity-drunk-drunk-drunk on a friday night on the town. from what i recall, sara approached me. and our conversation went something like this:


sara: omg, michelle, you HAVE to meet isaac!
me: who the fuck is isaac?
sara: this guy i just met. his name is isaac - i think he's a jew!
me: is he tall?
sara: tall enough.
me: fine. send him over. but i think i need another drink.


it was at this point that isaac approached me. what he looked like, i could not tell you. what we spoke about, again, couldn't tell ya. but apparently he was tall enough for me to give him my number. how do i know he gave me my number? because of this text exchange:


isaac (1:27 am): i'll look for you on sunday, smurffette. either way, let's grab drinks or food. talk soon. you're cool :) - isaac
me (3:33 am): right back at ya ;) have s great night


first. let's address my response. a WINKY FACE at 3:30 am? really. i shouldn't be allowed to own a phone. second. i should have known right from the start. golden rule: ALWAYS be skeptical of a text including a smiley. especially from a bro.


for some reason, in spite of my winky face, isaac wanted to take me out for drinks and dinner. the evening of our rendezvous, he texted me:


isaac: on my way. blue sweater and black jacket in case you don't remember exactly what i look like ;-)


again with the smileys. strike 2. although the text was necessary considering the shape i was in the night we met.


me: on my way too! blue floral shirt and black pants in case you need to spot me
isaac: what's your favorite flower? i like gerber daisies.
me: i actually don't know... i'm so bad with stuff like that! we had an orchid once? haha
isaac: alrighty. 


i should have bailed. gerber daisies? is this real? i actually had to google what a gerber daisy looked like. i most definitely couldn't pick one out of a lineup. but, my grandmother's booming voice was echoing in the back of my mind, and i decided to actually show up for the date and give this kid a chance. i mean, hey, it's not his fault i'm florally-retarded.


isaac shows up, clad in his blue sweater and black jacket. he was actually a lot cuter than i had expected, given my history of beer goggle trickery. dinner conversation wasn't terrible, he was actually very smart, and fairly funny. maybe i had it all wrong.


... maybe not.


turns out, the kid's favorite color is purple. and he sang in the choir.


these wouldn't be such terrible attributes had they stood alone. i have a guy friend, v dub, whose favorite color is pink. and my homeboy JP used to sing in the choir (quite talented, too, if you ask me). but purple + choir + gerber daisies? somebody drop this guy off in the castro. on the double.


needless to say, i neglected to call isaac back to follow up on our second date. in spite of his good night make out sesh. talk about throwing you for a loop.


but sorry bro, you're not foolin' anyone.

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. 

the post-breakup facebook de-friend.

if breakups weren't hard enough. on top of returning each others belongings, divvying up friends as if they were mutual equity, and the fear of running into each other without warning (or makeup on for that matter), there's now the dreaded dilemma whether or not to remain friends... on facebook.

i've seen it go many ways, and am still undecided as to the best approach. some might think it's petty, some might think it's a non-issue, but seeing as though social media gets me a pay check every other week, i think it's something worth paying attention to. whether you want to admit it or not, facebook plays a large part in relationships in this day and age. case in point: this horribly amazing breakup. 

we live in a world in which we're now slaves to an algorithm that decides what's important to us. that's a risky little game to play when avoiding any mention of your ex's name, let alone see his/her face all up in your newsfeed.

but wait a second, you can totally handle it because you're for sure winning this breakup.

don't act like you haven't been there. every breakup has a winner or a loser, whether you're willing to admit it or not. there's someone that always comes out on top. often times it's subtle, but it's apparent nonetheless. regardless, you can't show any signs of weakness either way, so you avoid clicking that fateful little link: unfriend. you stare at it until you've entered a cyber mexican standoff. there's just so much at stake here. it's more than pride. it's a matter of life and death.

ok, maybe that's a bit hyperbolic.

but it really is a lose-lose situation. if you're the first one to end the "friendship," you're outwardly admitting your inability to emotionally handle the breakup. however, if you don't, you're constantly reminded your ex's life does indeed go on without you, even if you wish misery upon them with every fiber of your being. neither one of those outcomes is ideal. especially when the wound is at its freshest.

but what about once both parties have "moved on?"

a gal pal of mine just went through a situation in which her exboyfriend of a few months randomly de-friended her out of the blue. after many a "wtf!?!?!" and "omg what an ass! is he for real?!" we decided to put our heads together and get down to the bottom of this completely asinine circumstance. is it really necessary to absolve the relationship on facebook after everyone is supposedly back on their feet? why now? what could possibly have triggered this?

it turns my gal pal's exboyfriend had actually gotten into a new relationship almost instantaneously after their breakup (what a douche). but as we got to thinking we realized it must have been his (heinous) new girlfriend who was the brains behind this de-friending operation.

there really isn't any other logical explanation as to why we came to this conclusion other than: girls are crazy. i hate to generalize, but i really wouldn't put it passed a member of my species to do such a thing. hell, who hasn't logged on to someone else's facebook and snooped around a bit? you're lying if you say you've never partaken in this activity. lisa, i'm looking at you.

dating in this day and age is completely ambiguous. between facebook, texting, email, IM, twitter, skype and all of the other countless means of communications out there (notice i didn't mention the phone? who calls people these days anyways?), it's getting harder and harder to define relationships. chill out fellow commitment-phoebes, by relationship i of course mean texting consistently and hooking up on the weekends. that sound more like it?

it's hard not to hate the social media channels; blame them for ruining our lives and providing even more grey lines for us to tip toe around. so, if you are going to de-friend an ex, tread lightly. stalking can be just as addictive as any drug, and next thing you know you're begging a friend, one who will judge you the least, for their facbeook login. i guess we all have our vices.

but you wouldn't know anything about that, because you're for sure #winning.

what to do when you find out one of your guy friends made out with a lesbian.

it's not often of an occasion, hearing one of your male friends made out with a gal who favors the same sex. well, let me rephrase that. i wouldn't put it past someone like my friend steve - he definitely has enough swagger to pull that one off. but in this instance, i heard the news and could hardly contain my laughter. call me a bitch, but i love any opportunity i can get to harass this particular pal of mine. let's call him jim, for the sake of argument. and the girl he made out with, sarah.

now, my first time hearing of this wasn't from jim himself, which makes it just that much better. learning of it second-hand allowed me to conjure up a multitude of mental images as to how i interpreted the event to transpire. i now realize, upon hearing the accurate rendition of the night, my version of the story was completely far from the truth. however, i still like to pretend this is what happened:

picture a guy. not too tall, not too short. a handsome fellow. with a goofy, yet charming, personality. that's jim. 

now, picture a gal. on the shorter side. a bit stocky. most likely wearing black lace-up combat boots of some sort. probably sporting a spiky hair cut. that's sarah. *note: i have nothing against lesbians. in fact, i fully support homosexuality. but just as there are ugly straight people, there are ugly lesbians, too.

it was a charity event. jim had been looking forward to the open bar the entire week and even put on a cummerbund and bow tie for the occasion. he happened to be in attendance with some mutual friends, all of them couples. being the odd man out, jim saw this as prime opportunity to pick up some chicks. 


the night consisted of teeny tiny finger foods and many, MANY, grey goose martinis. as the end of the night drew near, jim was feeling more confident than ever. struttin' around the room, sporting his booze goggles, he spotted her. looking around, he noticed all his friends were preoccupied with their significant others. it was a solo mission, and he was ready. he ordered another drink at the bar, and walked over to sarah. 


their conversation started off as any normal pithy dialogue would upon meeting someone under the influence. "what do you do? where do you live? what brings you here tonight? are those doc martins?" apparently that was enough for sarah, as she grabbed jim's face and started making out with him. 


totally appropriate for a black-tie open bar cocktail party, mind you.


and then, she was gone. the ninja fade, as i like to call it. most likely realizing the ramifications of her actions. or maybe she was butch-cinderella. the world will never know. jim went home, alone, slice of pizza in his hand as he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of his mystery lesbian. 


unfortunately, all of the above is just the inner workings of my childish mind. the real story goes nothing like that.

if you want to know, you'll just have to ask jim.