Geometric Relationships

Do you remember the formula for finding the surface area of a 3-D cone? I sure as hell don’t and I bet you don’t either (unless you are studying for the GMAT, g-d help you).   Regardless, I’m sure you understand the basics of a love triangle.  Well this story is not about a love triangle, it’s about a love vector.  So- because you may well have forgotten what a vector is- its a “geometric object that has a magnitude (or length) and direction.”  Let’s go back in time so I can better explain:

Stressed was just a young innocent in high school (really, I was!).  But I had a big crush on this artsy yet athletic boy in my class and I’m not feeling very original so we’ll call him The Artist.  However, I was not exactly the coolest or prettiest girl at school therefore making the responsiveness level for any flirtation quite low. 

But gal’s gotta keep her options open.  There happened to be another similarly cute-and-artsy-yet-still-a-jock boy at another school in the area who expressed more interest in me.  Let’s call him Grande (for reasons to be elaborated upon later).  Anyway, after much anticipation Grande became my first kiss – ever- when we made out in my friend’s basement.  However, I was so nervous and he was so tall that I was literally trembling and on my tip toes almost the whole time.  It was all very embarrassing and became even more so when I found out that a friend of a friend was in fact his GIRLFRIEND. Awkward.

As for The Artist, we made out randomly during beach week my senior year and the next day his friends had him call me and ask if I would come clean the house they had rented for the week. I was a notorious neat freak but this was a low blow.   Other than the occasional update from fellow class mates, that was the last I heard of either of these semi-concurrent high school melodramas.

Ok, so now let’s return to present day (ok fine, like 3 years ago).  I’m a single girl, new to NYC and I happen to run into The Artist on the street one day.  Naturally I say hi because apparently I just like torturing myself, and I’m not going to lie, it was good to see that The Artist had gotten a little fatter and had a little less hair.  Anyway, we swap numbers and he invites me to a party at his apartment on Friday night.  Clearly I have nothing better to do and so Friday night I’m buzzing in to a roof-level apartment somewhere near 96^th and 2^nd Ave.  The Artist had mentioned that he had several roommates….turns out one of them is Grande. “Oh dear g-d,” I’m thinking to myself “I thought there were 8 million people in this city, why do these two guys have to be roommates!?!” Worst of all, Grande has gotten hotter. A lot hotter.  Stressed has a crush and it is difficult to hide.

This is where the vector metaphor becomes relevant:

 

The Artist à Stressed à Grandeà ???? (not Stressed)

(There’s no triangle, because Grande seems too oblivious or too cool to reflect the appropriate sentiments toward me.)

Somehow I survive the initial trauma of interacting with these two guys at the same time.  The Artist, being far more interested in me and having been the one to find me, gets ‘dibs’ I suppose.  So we go on a few dates and he is a very sweet guy, really.  I don’t know if he was just an ass in high school or if it was peer pressure that made him act like such a jerk.  Unluckily for him though, that ship has sailed and I’m not interested at this point.  But he’s is trying so damn hard I feel like giving him a chance.  See example: I mentioned that I hate cut flowers because I think it’s like bringing a girl a dead (or dying) animal, just weird.  I’d much rather get a potted plant that will continue to live.  Two days later I arrive home and my doorman tells me after work that I have 4 plants waiting for me outside my apartment. 

Boy. That. Actually. Listens…?

Seems worth investigating.  So I keep getting tugged along on the romance track with The Artist but really I know that I’m much more interested in Grande and I’m frankly not sure how The Artist does not notice.  At this point I’m stuck though; no way to see Grande without going through The Artist.  These two guys are basically joined at the hip. One weekend we are all hanging out and I get drunk and start coming on to Grande pretty hard, bringing the situation painfully into the light.  The Artist is not happy, and I really do feel bad about it. However, he seems to be cool enough to get over it we are able to make a successful jump to the parallel friend vector.

Fast forward 2 years. Stressed, you have outdone yourself and have somehow managed to remain friends with both The Artist and Grande.  They are of course still roommates and I find myself often going out to Brooklyn (I know, if that isn’t a true friend, what is!?) to hang out, go to a museum etc.  I should add that going out to Brooklyn is a little more enticing given that I still have a crush on Grande. 

So February rolls around and it’s my birthday.  I have never been in to throwing myself a huge party or anything like that so I just invite 7-8 people – including the dynamic duo- over to hang out.  Unfortunately, it’s snowing so these guys are the only ones that show up (except for my 2 roommates, who eventually go to bed).   As the night goes on and we drink more, it seems apparent that The Artist has relinquished whatever “I found her first” claims he may have had over me and Grande actually seems interested. Poof, vector now looks like this:

(The Artist )      Stressed àß Grande

The Artist goes home without his blood brother, a sure sign that he has given his blessing for us to hook up.  Well happy birthday to me!

Now in case it wasn’t clear before, Grande is named such because he is about 6’4 and I will say that the rule about tall men proved very true in this case and.  Given that I’m a fairly petite 5’3, birthday sex turned out to be a pain. Enough so that I was not interested in repeating the experience.  However, Grande seemed to feel otherwise.  He was very gentlemanly and took me to breakfast.  He then called the next day to say he had a good time etc. And then I ignored his subsequent texts asking to hang out for the next 10 days or so. What was I supposed to say?  “Your too….ummm…. large for me?”

A few more days went by with no contact and then I received a Facebook message from him saying a number of things one of which was “You are the best sex I ever had.”  I tell you this not to brag but to express my utter bewilderment as to how our lines could have crossed in such a terribly inconsistent way. I felt I owed him a direct call telling him it wasn’t going to work.  Well that call pissed of both members of the dynamic duo and they cut me off, which was really painful because I had enjoyed hanging out with them quite a bit over the 2 years we had been reacquainted.

I ran into The Artist at a new year’s party about a year later.  We said an awkward hello and he told me he was going to get a masters in art in Atlanta.  As for Grande, I had the unique joy of sitting next to him and his new girlfriend (who looked just like me btw) on a 4 hr bus ride home to DC.  I spent the whole time pretending to watch Mad Men on my laptop but was secretly trying to listen in on their conversation. 

Vectors do not bend and they certainly to not make 180 degree turns. If they do, something is very wrong.

Ask and You Shall Receive

Meeting a doctoral candidate at Columbia University sound too good to be true? There’s a reason for that. Allow me to explain. I took a class at Columbia this summer and in order to complete my reading (or at least make a dent in it) I got in the habit of going to the library after class ended. I started noticing a somewhat cute guy who always seemed to head to the library at the same time as me. Eventually we spoke. This in and of itself seemed exceptional just because this is New York and people don’t really- how shall I put this- acknowledge each others existence.

Eventually we spoke enough to find out each other’s names and that he was a couples therapist (something for which there is a desperate need here in NYC I’m sure) perusing a doctorate in psychoanalysis...kinda weird? Anyway, one thing led to another and Dr. Love and I end up going on a date. He’s a little weird…well, maybe a lot weird. He’s from Connecticut (weird already!) but spent a good bit of time in LA being bizzaro as only west coast people can. Dr. Love eats free range tofu and meditates at home for like 3 hours a day. And yet, for whatever reason, I decide I can handle this. I mean, who am I to judge? I probably watch Star Trek for 3 hours a day, so we all have our vices do we not?

Anyway, I have been seeing Dr. Love fairly regularly for a few weeks but the more I get to know him the less I feel like this is gonna work. However, we have reached that awkward phase where I feel that we are clearly dating but not really in a ‘relationship.’ After some contemplation, I decide the right thing to do is have a formal, clean break. None of this “I’m just never going text you again” business because I hate it when people do that and I wouldn’t do it to someone unless we only met one or two times.

But I, like the rest of the world, REALLY hate the breakup talk…I mean even if it’s not really a break up because we weren’t together I feel like I have to give some sort of supporting argument. It’s like I’m writing a thesis on why we are not getting married. Not a fun process. And there’s always the potential for it to go so very wrong, or for the other person to talk me out of it, and that is the worst because they have just condemned me to repeat my actions again in 3-6 weeks.

None the less, I think I should bide my time on this one. After all, we are watching the Ravens game tonight and I really can’t have such an essential activity interrupted by mushy love talk. Yet sadly Dr. Love starts petting my hair as soon as I arrive (one of the levendybillion reasons we are not getting married). But the pre-game show is on, so snuggle time will just have to wait. Be strong Stressed; tolerate, tolerate, tolerate. The game is on in 45 minutes.

But Dr. Love seems to be under the impression that I have actually come over just to see him and that the Ravens game is some sort of guise designed to allow us more hang out time. That would be incorrect.

We start making out and all I can think is “How am I going to get out of this? I just want to watch the game and there’s no time for breakup chit chat!” (On a side note; am I a man?) Dr. Love excuses himself for a moment to go to the bathroom. I turn over to the nightstand to look for the remote to turn up the volume (hint: the game is on buddy!!). But as I do so, I notice a pair of dangly black and gold earrings right next to the remote….and they’re definitely not mine. YES! This is my out! Its fast, it’s obvious, there’s no exit interview and- if I catch a cab- ill only miss 10 min of the game.

So when he comes back I decide to seize the moment and this is the conversation that follows:

Stressed: Whose earrings are these?

Love: Oh…hmm…I don’t know. They must have been here for a while.

Stressed: Well last time I was here they weren’t.

Love: Well, aren’t they yours?

Stressed: No, I think I can recognize a pair of my own earrings.

Love: Errr…..Well I thought I could hook up with other people. I mean, we never talked about it.

(Note: this is true, but 1^st quarter is just beginning so too bad)

Stressed: Well, I guess I thought we were kinda just seeing each other. I wasn’t seeing anyone else. I guess we just have different standards….I should go.

Love: Wait…why? I’m sorry.

Stressed: No, I’m sorry, I guess we just have different ideas about dating.

Love: Ok, I’m sorry if I hurt-

GONE …out the door….in a cab…E…S…P…N

So this may make me sound like a bitch, but to be fair this guy is a couples’ therapist for Christ’s sake!! He should know better!! And lying to me about having slept with someone while I was on vacation is just bad form! So I think we are all better off now: That girl can come back and get her earrings, Dr. Love can devote all his time and head petting attention to her (and whoever else he has waiting around), and I can watch Joe Flacco, Ray-ray and team knock the pants off their victims du jour.

Just another reason singleness is a chronic, yet often undiagnosed, condition here in New York.

Reason number 856 not to sleep with your roommate's friend - RUGBURN!

I'm DC Drama Queen, Stressed’ best friend and I will be doing today's guest post! :-)

My tale of man-related woe dates all the way back to our first semester of college. Stressed and I lived in the international dorm at our university and, well, that lead to some intercultural miscommunication with our roommates. I was stuck in a triple with one (very angry) Philippine girl (henceforth VAPG) and a shy Korean girl who earned her nickname of "Stinky" by clinging to the belief that showering was optional.

VAPG was engaged to her high school boyfriend, who was in marine boot camp that semester. Their lack of communication (and sex) made her quite a challenge to live with, not to mention she was also one of those people who took the academic part of college uber-seriously and was constantly studying. Stinky, on the other hand, was a very sheltered, very socially awkward girl who pretty much never left our room.

So between the three of us it’s safe to say our lifestyles clashed......

That fall, during one of the brief periods where VAPG and I were not at each other’s throats, she had introduced me to a friend of hers from high school, who we shall call Mr. B-School. Given that said friend was incredibly cute, and I was recently single, this was most definitely a bad call on VAPG's part. Soon Mr. Business School and I were flirting and I began spending an inordinate amount of time at our diner's 'late-nite', where he baked terrible pre-fab pizzas (can you tell this kid was a winner?). It was all very cute and typical, except for the one little detail that Mr. B-School had neglected to mention: he had a girlfriend. who was also a friend of my roommate. (sidebar: I don't believe in monogamy, and wasn't really looking for anything serious, so an out-of-state girlfriend was not an issue for me.) VAPG became even angrier when she realized that I had developed a crush on Mr. B-School and promptly read me the riot act about the fact that he was attached.

Bo Mr. B-School and I took our flirtation into the shadows of late-nite at the diner (romantic, no?), AIM chats and hanging out when VAPG wasn't around. Stressed was my accomplice in this, forcing herself to eat far more junk food then any reasonable person should at 11pm most nights of the week. I think she actually like Mr. B-School, which should have been my first- ok maybe second- clue that this was going to be a disaster, as we never agree on men! After a few weeks, the flirting had progressed to making out and an intense, awesome hookup session in the attic lounge that was cruelly ended by the lack of a condom (random psa: practice safe sex y'all!).

The next weekend, VAPG was thankfully out of town and so Mr. B-School and I made plans to hang out at my place Saturday night. I don't remember where Stinky was, but she had made a rare foray into the outside world, so we decided to take full advantage of it and quickly ended up in my bed (which should be noted was the bottom of a bunk bed; Stinky had the top bed). However, since the universe hates me, Stinky reappeared just as we were getting naked. Besides the fact that she was shocked and horrified to find a naked man in her room, she recognized Mr. B-School as the guy the VAPG and I had been fighting about for weeks. We quickly redressed and vacated the room, but weren't about to be fooled again. Luckily, our dorm had a small classroom in the basement, and Mr. B-School and I relocated our encounter to there.

It was at this point that I learned what an uncomfortable setting a classroom is for sex. The tables were too hard, the chairs were too flimsy, and the floor was covered in some sort of very unpadded carpet. As you've probably guess from the title of this post, the floor (and its carpet from hell) won out and mediocre sex ensued. I was more than ready to be rid of Mr. B-School at this point and my poor knees hurt like hell, but it was pretty late, and we were both pretty drunk, so I agreed to let him spend the night. We went back to my room to find Stinky asleep, so we climbed into my bed. Mr. Business School was apparently ready for round 2 and since I was left high and dry by the first shot, I let him talk me into having sex while Stinky snored quietly above us. It turned out that Stinky was not actually a sound sleeper however, and soon was awake and even more horrified. That was the last straw, and I decamped to VAPG's bed for the night.

In the morning, Mr. B-School quickly and thankfully made himself scarce and I was left to plead with Stinky not to tell VAPG what had happened. Thinking I had been successful, I took off to my parents' for the day (and made up some lame excuse about tripping when asked about the massive raw spots on my knees!). Stinky, however, apparently held a grudge over having her sleep disturbed and I returned to the dorm to the wrath of VAPG. All I will say about that is never underestimate the amount of rage that can be contained within a 5' tall frame.

Thus, the moral of my story is simple: never sleep with your roommate's friend who is dating her other friend unless you enjoy spending the next few months fearing for your life every time you go to sleep............

Recycling – It’s not easy being green

So I have this problem. I like to recycle. Not like paper goods or water bottles or anything like that (though I do that too). No, my urge to recycle has nothing to do with geopolitical matters, Al Gore or rising sea levels. It pertains to the serious affliction of recycling boyfriends. I can’t help myself. Perhaps there is a cure for this illness but I have yet to find it.

This problem manifested itself as early as my first serious boyfriend, so you can see how endemic this disease truly is. He wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but he was pretty good lacrosse player so I will refer to him as Dislaxic. I remember I invited him to visit one weekend during college (meaning he would stay in my room… with my two eccentric roommates of course!) thus causing my then boyfriend, the Uber-ex (see below), to freak out. I didn’t even hook up with Dislaxic, nor did I want to. I just wanted to bask in the glow of his flirtation for a little while. Being the highly competitive person that I am, I suppose I just wanted to reassure myself that I was the hotter, happier one and that he “still had a thing for me.”

Unfortunately, these urges have since devolved into a veritable spiral of self abuse. In fact, just this past December I hooked up with Uber-ex (who I hadn’t dated for nearly two years and who DUMPED ME ON VIA THE INTERNET…but that’s a story for another day) and - of course - I managed to get my feelings hurt. Why can’t I leave these people alone? But on the other hand, why do they keep responding to me? Surely, this is part of the problem as well.

Now I’m in the throes of getting over a round three breakup with Eyebrows (see below regarding my trip to Peru). And yet part of me whishes I hadn’t dumped him and is seriously questioning my ability avoid crawling back (in part because I know he will have me back). Without someone to smother me with attention, I don’t know what to do with myself. And I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way. If you don’t happen to live with your best gal pal and spend every waking second together, odds are good you missed getting attention from someone, having a conversation with them after work, watching incredibly crappy Bravo programs together. Is this what leads us to recycle?

It seems that despite our most arduous efforts to resist, we just crave the conquest of boys – even if it’s a reconquest. In fact, I think to some degree we are all doomed to be a bit like Elaine and Puddy from Seinfeld; perpetually breaking up and getting back together just as opportunistically as we may have met in the first place.

I had always sworn I would not be one of those drama queens…you know, the kind who run out of the bar crying every time they see a guy they may have hooked up with at some point stroll in with another girl (yet, drama queens seem to end up making out with said boy again by the end of the night). We all have a little bit of that in us though – for better or for worse. So how do we cut down on our recycling?

Great Tips for a Romantic Valentine’s Day

Or not. If you think you have had your Valentine’s Day ruined by a bad date, a flakey boyfriend who failed to fulfill your every wish and dream on the most romantic day of the year, or just a few glasses of wine too many, you are wrong. I win this one. Allow me to explain.

It all began when my uber-ex (as I like to call him) and I were drinking in his dorm freshman year. You know this is going somewhere classy just from the intro right? So as I was saying, we are drinking and scampering back and forth between people’s rooms, because we are freshman and the whole hall is community property.

Eventually the witching hour of 12 am rolls around and I am out (it should be noted, nothing has changed. I still pass out this early). Unbeknownst to me- as I was pretty drunk- uber-ex continues drinking for several more hours.

Around what I imagine to be 3 or 4 am he crawls into the tiny dorm room bed with me and passes out. Back to sleep for me…..until a few hours later- 8 am let’s say- when uber-ex rolls out of bed and starts ambling toward his desk.

Now let’s pause to give a bit of circumstance. This being February, it’s pretty cold out. So I have worn my ski jacket to walk over to uber-ex’s dorm. I place it over the back of his desk chair upon arrival as usual and don’t think about it for the rest of the night.

Back to 8 am. Uber-ex is clearly still drunk, I can tell by the way he’s walking. So he lumbers over toward the desk, which I find odd because the door to the hall (and thus the restroom, water fountain ect.) is the other way. I’m still a little tipsy and feeling less than ideal so I drop my head back against the pillow and start to doze off again when I realize there’s a very strange sound coming from the desk area. It sounds like dripping or….running water. I bolt upright practically shouting “Uber-ex. What the eff are you doing?”

Yes, that’s right, he’s peeing…on my jacket...my $200, brand new ski jacket. Honestly, I don’t think he’s even aware of himself at this point. He finishes relieving himself and stumbles back over to the bed. Horrified, I slap him across the face, let out a string of obscenities and go over to investigate the damage. It’s not a pretty site. By now he is awake and whimpering something along the lines of “What the…but what did I do?” The only logical thing to do is take revenge.

Without another word (and making sure to slam the door behind me) I take his wallet, car keys, a trash bag (to carry the now toxic ski jacket) and head to the dry cleaners where I drop off the jacket….along with a few other things I have been meaning to dry clean. Explaining the situation is humiliating but it must be done. I ask them to clean the coat twice for good measure. Alas, its only $80 but for the next 2 years of our relationship I bring this story up every time we get close to Valentine’s Day. It helps me have a more enjoyable and romantic holiday. I can’t say whether it did him any good or not.

So next year, when your boyfriend doesn’t take you to Del Posto or only gets you 2 new bra and panties sets at Victoria’s Secret, just think of young Stressed shivering in her boyfriend’s car on the way to the dry cleaners on Valentine’s Day morning and be grateful you have never endured such humiliation. You may canonize me now.

Cruel Intentions

Here we go again. This one has been a long time coming but I didn’t feel ready to write about it until just recently when a (somewhat) similar incident occurred just a few days ago, though on a less devastating scale.

This tale begins as they all do, I’m at a bar with my friends…and there’s a boy…and we are flirting. Ok, now that we’ve gotten through the obvious parts of this scenario lets discuss details. This person, hereafter referred to as the Defendant was the total opposite of anything I ever thought I could be attached to. He was in the army, he had been to Iraq, he had tattoos (on his ass!), he was wickedly conservative, and-of course- he was Catholic. If this isn’t a disaster waiting to happen I don’t know what is.

Anyway, we started hooking up right away…perhaps too quickly. But we were spending a good bit of time together. Probably 2-3 times a week we would hang out, drink, I’d stay out later than I wanted to too and roll into work around 10 the next day after running home to change my clothes. You see where I’m going with that right?

Before going on can we just pause to describe the Defendant’s room because I found it truly alien and extraordinarily bizarre. If you ever hook up with this guy, you will know it! The room sort of looked like it could have been a shrine to Sarah Palin. There, on the wall over the bed, was a framed canvas painting of George Washington, the founder of our great nation. As you looked around you could see the army medals, platoon flags, and – oh yeah- the mandatory giant American flag. Why oh why didn’t I run when I had the chance. (It should be noted that I am a rabid liberal who went to Quaker school, friend.)

But before you know it a month or so of seeing one another has passed, though I feel like I have been a little more aggressive about hanging out than he has…but oh well, this is the 21st century is it not? One night he’s showing me his yearbook – no idea how that came up - and he mentions that he’s going to this Army ball (I know, what the eff am I getting in to?!?!?) and I don’t know if I invited myself or if he thought of it all on his own, all I know is that a really awkward conversation takes place and about 30 seconds later I am committed to going to an Army ball in 4 days.

Fist though: What am I going to wear. Second thought: Will I be bayoneted through the gut when I refuse to place my hear over my heart and say “under God”? Panic ensues. I buy a dress that costs way more than I’d like to admit. It’s a prom dress/ bridesmaid dress from Macy’s. In excellent taste if I do say so myself. It’s long and has a white top (empire waste) with a nice satiny flowing black bottom. I love it!

As if buying a ball gown wasn’t enough, I’m now getting my hair done. My hairdresser verbally abuses me for having hideous hair (thanks lady!) and now I have an updo. I start to feel foolish, like I look as if I’m getting married. Oh well, too late.

We go to this event and its sort of a weird experience. Boozing and sitting at the table with the future army wives of America does not help me cope. Then comes a series of awards and so on…and then we all join in a rousing round of “God Bless the USA” or something like that. I mumble along as best I can. But overall, I think I’ve made my point. I look hot, I meet people I essentially consider to be his co-workers and bosses, we hold hands like a real couple. We are good, maybe great.

More drinking after the event ends. I am introduced to a bunch of friends and I feel like we are all getting along great. One girl even tells me “You and the Defendant are such a great match.” Good job Stressed, you are making inroads in the fight against singledom. The night ends on a good note and the next day the Defendant gets up early to go to work. We say goodbye and I say I’ll make something good for dinner if he comes over to eat it. He agrees.

And we all live happily ever after…

Wait what!??!? No, no, no. That’s not the end at all. If it were, do you think I’d be writing this? So he can’t come to dinner. Shit happens, fine. Then I don’t hear from him for a week. Not fine. So I text him. He’s minimally responsive and after I while I start freaking out and over-doing it. Then one night the following week my friend gets her hands on my phone after a discussion about the Defendant and sends him a message saying (and I can only guess at this) “Hey, if you don’t want to talk to me again you could at least let me know. I’m assuming you don’t want to hear from me anymore.” I am drunkenly complicit but even as it happens I know its a terrible idea. My thoughts the next day: ‘Life over…humiliation complete… I lose.’ Of course, he didn’t not respond to this message. How can I reconcile this situation?

Oh I know. Genius Stressed will send a new text explaining. “Sorry for the crazy friend. Long story but I hope we can hang out soon and I will explain.” No response. Effing great. I’m pretty confident by know that these texts have made it up on some embarrassing blog (I’m a hypocrite go ahead and say it) and all of New York now knows me as the “Mad Texter” or something like that. A few weeks go by and I come to realize that he has been seeing another girl and that’s why he dropped off the face of the earth (Eff you Facebook! I mean it! You ruin lives!)

Anyway, that’s pretty much where the story ends. The moral? My friends are crazy bitches, army boy are assholes, and I’m prettier than some other girl that’s probably getting laid riiiighhht…NOW! Whatever, I returned the dress (I know it’s unethical but it helped reduce the financial sting of this affair) and got a nice haircut a few days later. I think this is something on which I will forever look back with some amusement, more wisdom and a dash of consternation!

UPDATE: About 6 weeks after we stopped talking, the Defendant ended up getting engaged to this other girl, who it seemed clear he had been engaged to before he went to Iraq.  Gotta love being 'the other woman.'

But really, who got the last laugh?

It’s a long story, but I’ve got time… so here goes. I meet this guy at a friend’s company holiday party back in December. To be honest, I wasn’t that interested. In fact, I wasn’t interested at all. (Seeing as my own nose is far from ideal, I consider an oversized nose a fatal flaw. Let’s just say fatal flaw: detected.) So anyway, he gives me his card and I end up giving it to another girl we are hanging out with saying “I think he really likes you.” I know, it wasn’t really a great thing to do to someone but I did it out of kindness and christmass spirit (im a jew but whatever) as she seemed fairly interested in him. Anyway, it was random night and as the party ended this other girl, Exhibit A (as I shall call the guy), and myself were headed to some bar in the West Village…at the suggestion of Exhibit A. However, he doesn’t have any cash and guys have to pay cover at this bar.

If I may digress for I moment, I’d just like to point out that there are few expectations of men in this city, but having cash on you at all times is definitely one of them!! Begrudgingly, I let it slide. Trying not to judge anyone here…after all we just met. So the other girl and I are waiting in the bar for about 40 minutes and Exhibit A never returns (play ominous, foreboding music here). Sigh, I’m tired and I want to go to bed. So I do.

That Monday I come in and check my personal email (yes, I check personal email at work) and there’s a message from Exhibit A. My initial response is to be slightly freaked out. I was not that drunk and I certainly didn’t give him any of my personal information. Then I realize my friend- the one who invited me to her company’s holiday party- must have passed it along. I confirm this with her via text message. Now, I happen to be pretty bored and alone most of the time in New York so the fact that this guy sought out my information and is asking me to hang out is somewhat flattering and strikes me as rather sweet. So I wait a day, as standard procedure would dictate, before responding.

“Yes, we should get lunch. That would be lovely.” We both work in the same part of town so it seems doable. However, apparently it’s more difficult than it seems. This guy cancels on me twice. It’s ok, I understand…stuff comes up at work. I suggest we get brunch on the following Sunday instead, and he agrees. He mentions it will have to be later in the day as he will be returning from Pennsylvania. I take advantage of this opportunity to make a little joke about how “I don’t like Pennsylvania because I’m from Maryland,” but that “it’s not nearly as bad as Virginia.” The email I get back is a rather shocking one:

“Actually, Stressed, I’m going to Pennsylvania to visit my grandmother who just had a stroke. Sorry to put your foot in your mouth… Ouch!”

Umm…ok. We are done. I don’t ever need to talk to this guy again. Sorry about your grandma but if you can’t take a joke this just isn't gonna work. So I don’t apologize about the grandmother (while I’m sorry to hear she had a stroke, his response was just mean and uncalled for).

Weeks go by, probably about a month. Then out of the blue I get another email from him saying “Hey, whatever happened to brunch? I never heard from you.” I should have let it end here thinking: Stressed: 1. Exhibit A: 0. Alas, I have no other prospects at the moment and decide, against my better judgment, to respond. Back to the same old conversation about having lunch. So of course he cancels, but he does call me at work and chats for about 15 min to tell me this. That seems like a nice thing to do so I let it go….I am far too forgiving.

Then one random Thursday evening he texts me asking if I want to get a drink after work. Sure, what the hell? So we go out and are having a nice time. Until he gets a message on his Blackberry. “Oh shoot. I totally forgot I have a squash game at 8:30. I have to run.” So we walk as far as we can in the same direction and say bye, we’ll hang out soon, all the standard bullshit. Amazingly, I do hear from him again about a week later. Again, he’s inviting me to get a drink. Sure, sounds good. We have a nice time, do it again a few more times…we are starting to develop a routine. Then, after like 3 months of back and forth, we finally hook up. I know not everyone is like this, but in Stressed-land hooking up means “You are now obligated to see me at least once a week." Sorry if thats too much to ask...

This guideline appears to be working out ok for all of one week at which point we make a plan to hang out the next Wednesday. However, Exhibit A has to cancel. Some bullshit about a squash game time change (umm…again). So fine, we will hang out Thursday, because that Friday he is due to go to London for two weeks. But at 5:30 on Thursday I get a text sayin- and i quote- “Hey I don’t think I can make it tonight. Waaa L I have a networking event for work. Talk to you when I get back.”

What the fuck? That’s a load of crap and I’m sure if he actually wanted to see me before he went away for two weeks he would have made it a point to so do; people have a magical way of putting themselves first. After seething for a few hours and bitching to several friends I send the following response:

I don’t think that will be necessary.

Never heard from him again…so who won?