OUT-RACE-OUS

Editor's Note: I took a break from blogging this summer and I had planned to take a break from dating.  But the dating gods had other plans.

I've always been an equal opportunity dater.  Meaning, if you're upright and breathing I'll consider dating you.  In short, race has never really been an issue for me.  Racism however, is another subject.

I started chatting with "Atlanta Dave."  A good ole Georgia Peach who found himself transplanted to the heartlands of New Jersey.  Atlanta Dave had me in stitches.  North met South on topics like sweet tea, Zac Brown Band, and pie.   However, red rebel flags started flying during our first phone conversation.  It was obvious by his slurring that someone had had one too many mint juleps or PBRs to really hold a decent conversation.  So I did what any good Yankee would do, I became impatient and rude.

Ten minutes go by and the phone rings again.  It's the 'stewed peach"calling to apologize.  He's charming once again and we talk about swimming.  He makes an off-handed comment about how black people can't swim.  Part of  me is thinking, "Stace, just let it go." But I can't. I said to him, "I've never heard that." He says with a real authoritative voice, "Yeah, everyone knows that."  I said, "where did you get that theory from?"  He says, "well it's because of segregation.  "They" couldn't swim in our pools so they don't know how to swim and because of that to this day, blacks don't know how to swim."  I replied, "you do realize that swimming is not a genetic trait it's a learned skill.  It has nothing to do with race."

Hmmmmm.... silence... then dial tone.  

A few weeks later, I start talking to this other guy - "Greg Gee."  A longshoreman from a family with a long history of being longshoremen.  In addition to his longshoremanship his accolades included being from Breezy Point (one of the last of the all white neighborhoods), to getting me into this elite beach community of above said all-white neigborhood, to attending the funerals of a number of known made men, and finally his love of the Jersey Shore (the TV show not the geographic location).

So I choose to hone in on our common theme of loving the beach.  I tell him that I frequent Riis Park.  He grunts and says, " I hate it there, too many damn crickets."   I pause, and do a classic Scooby-Doo noise "Err?"  I first think, "bugs?"  I shake my head and say no.  Second, I think hipsters? Crickets have skinny legs, hipsters wear skinny pants but that can't be it.  So I said, "I'm sorry I've never heard that phrase before, educate me."  He replied astonished, "you know crickets?   Black people." At this point I have no words. Not that I'm up on all the derogatory slang words but its not the first that may come to my mind.  He followed my silent response up with a question, "Hey, what nationality are you?"  I replied, "Black Irish."  

What is it about me that attracts the crazy? I mean I could see if I listed my favorite color as crisp bed sheet white or hobbies include dancing around burning crosses or dead person I'd like to have dinner with most - Adolf Hitler than I could justify these approaches. But instead I'll just blog about it.  

Dating ADD

I know, I know. I’ve been very quiet as of late on the dating front. That’s because my last date with the Mad Scientist turned into a UFC throw down and turned me off to the whole dating scene. I didn’t go so far as to hide or delete my online dating profiles which was fine considering I wasn’t really getting any nibbles. 

I did continue to receive the occasional “Yo, sexy mama!” or “hey, is that a hooookah?” emails from the more than annoying serial dating gadflys that swarm these free dating sites.  Believe me, I took great pleasure in deleting the inane emails upon receipt.  So when a email composed by an intelligent human being entered my inbox, my interest was piqued.  

At first read it was coherent (sigh).  Grammatically correct (wow!)  It wasn’t Pultizer prize winning but it was mildly entertaining and down-right sweet (bat eye lids).    So of course I responded.  Rapid fire responses flooded our inboxes with witty banter and numerous “lolz,” so we decided to kick it up a proverbial notch and exchanged phone numbers.

And that’s when the fun really began.

It did not take me too long to realize I was talking to someone with severe ADD/ADHD.  The conversation was like a Jackson Pollack painting, I had no idea where it began, what direction it was going, nor where it ended.  He would ask me a question and I would just about get three words out of my mouth before he interrupted me and then answered the same said question for himself.  In his defense, he did admit that he talks a lot and was notorious for interrupting people.  Hmmmm, in hindsight - understatement. 

After about 12 minutes I was done but it took me 8 more to interrupt him and tell him I had to go.  I kept the good bye pretty general and hung up exhausted even though I had not contributed more than 25 words to the conversation.  And just like that, he called back. 

Me: Ummmm, hello?

Him: [said in one breath]

HeyStacey,Iforgot,IforgottotellyoutohavefundancingtonightCauseyeah,heyyouknowIdancesalsa,too.IworkoutatagymandIgotgreathips,greathips.Heah,heah,heah,greathips.Doyouworkout?Igotothegym3timesaweek,gottastayhealthygottastayfit.AndyeahyouknowimacaringandconsiderateguycauseIcalledyoubacktowishingyouagoodnightout.

My head was spinning with disbelief.  Really is this happen? I thanked him and hung up.  In the time it took me to take a quick shower and walk back into my bedroom, I had a:

Missed call, a voicemail and two texts messages

I ignored them and continued to get dress as my friend was on her way to pick me up. 

Two more text messages.

I get into the car.

Text message

I go out dancing.  Around midnight:

Text message.

On the car ride home around 2 a.m.:

Dating website email alert

Following morning while I was still sleeping:

Text message – how was dancing?

I head to Queens to visit family I haven’t seen in more than four years (Which he knew because it was just some of the 25 words I was able to say to him).

Missed call, voicemail, two text messages.

I reply, “I’m with family and unable to talk.”

Two text messages. 

This continued into Monday which was an all consuming day with several demanding media deadlines.  I responded once to the 8 text messages.  Saying, “I’m on deadline, cannot talk.”  Admittedly, I kind of hoped he’d get the hint and then I thought I really don’t want the dating karma gods to rebel against me anymore than they already have (seriously, this girl could use all the help that’s available) I thought, I have to say something to him. 

I’m relaying all this to one of my male coworkers who I’m having a drink with as we talk a little shop and a little fat.  Over the course of six hours I would receive:

3 missed calls, 2 voicemails, and 18 random text messages - consisting of gibberish and ramblings.  Text topics ranging from:

“I just got off a plane.”  

“What are you talking about I said coffee.”

“I’m playing a gig in Virginia.”

“I said I wanted to make you breakfast”

“I’m at bag check”

“I need someone to welcome me home, kiss me on the cheek, hug me when I’m missed.” (Me in my head: I'm not your mother)

“Thanks for no response. Good luck with life.”

“That was a quick kinda mad response.” (Again, me in my head: Ya, think?)

“As a woman you gotta expect that I’m gonna drop everything on a drop of a hat to play a gig.” (Me in my head: I thought you were in law school??)

“Didn’t you want to meet someone?”

“I have no interest in bar flyz”

The following morning I sent a cease and detest email. 

Two text messages.

Sigh, and this is why I’m staying single……….

In Honor of Mardi Gras

"Show me your tits!" Well, now that got your attention. It certainly got mine when I received it during a non-sexual text conversation.  At first, I thought maybe I was not the intended recipient or maybe he meant tots?  Nope, it was for me and had nothing to do with taters.

Guys are really brave in this textual age of dating, and not in a chivalrous way. Some guys don't think twice about calling at all hours or revealing their true character or intentions after a first date.

I remember this one time I was out at a club in Orlando dancing salsa with some friends.  The place was dark and the music was moving.  At that moment, I got a text on my phone.  I had just gotten this new phone with a huge touch screen.  The image that popped up on the screen was larger than life.  I literally dropped the phone. My friend who was standing way on the other side of the bar ran over and said, "is that what I think that is?"

A word to the wise to all the show-ers and growers out there,when you send us these "things" we do show it to our girlfriends and we do point and giggle.

I guess I should be grateful he wasn't an ass man.

Mauled By A Mad Scientist

There are two parts of my body  that a person should hope to never encounter when they’re out on a date with me, 1) my right hook and b) my left knee.  In my 36 1/2 years I've never had to bust out both of them until last Friday night.

As the result of a speed dating event I was matched with this guy who turned out to be a scientist.  This was no ordinary run of the mill scientist either but a Harvard AND NASA scientist.  

The speed dating event was advertised as such - meet 20 guys in 90 minutes (oh my). Do to a surplus of single people stranded in the city on a snowy Saturday night, there was more than enough to go around.  I was conveniently stationed at the bar, each guy took a loop around the room, we got to spend 4-minutes making a lasting first impression on each before the the gong was hit and then they moved on to their next potential match.

No wonder Beaker always looked so frightened.

The speed dating had gone into overtime, and by the end of the second hour I was exhausted, cranky and in dire need of nap. In other words, I was in rare "Stacey" form.  That's when  M21 saddled up to me. Our initial 4-minute conversation can only be explained as a stolen page from some long lost unemployed sitcom writer's script:

Me: (Heavy sigh) So how's it going?
M21: Great. And you?
Me: Well, my face hurts. (Jiggle my glass) I could use another drink and an aspirin. So what do you do?
M21: I'm a scientist.
Me: (in a high pitched tone) Really? Like a mad scientist???
M21: (Chuckle) Not exactly, I'm a physiologist...
Me: So you don't spend all day in a dungeon coming up with evil potions?  Or are you more like that Muppet scientist? Cause you kind look like him. (In case you're wondering, this is why I am single.)

My rare Stacey-ness somehow managed to score me a date with the "Mad Scientist."  The date started out great.  We met for dinner in the East Village at a Serbian restaurant.  He charmed me with stories about his family's house in Portugal, his professorship in New Zealand, his numerous trips to Eastern Europe and his cross country trip to a scientists convention on his Harley.  That was it, I was officially a geek lover! 

From there we went to our second spot - a small German beer garden. All good.  We're standing at this little side table and then it happens...  His hand travels down the side of my body, stops on my rump and and he starts patting it.  I do the nervous girl giggle and the not so subtle subtle right elbow shove and move his hand off.  We play this tug of war a couple more times.  It seems as if he couldn't complete a sentence without punctuating my ass. 

Our third and final destination was a little 80s club across the street.  In our brief commute over I made it very clear verbally that the ass grabbing was not appreciated. From that conversation, our genius deduced that he should step up his game.  You would think that a physiologist would know that boobs are not detachable nor are they screw tops.  That's when Shirley and Lefty made their first appearance together.  I got up after that and went to the ladies room.  When I returned the Mad Scientist was past out asleep.  And this is why he's still single.

It was in that moment I realized a few things 1) crazy comes in all shapes and sizes, 2) having an education doesn’t make you smart and c) thankfully I know how to handle myself.  I think alot about these girls who don't say anything and allow these guys to behave poorly or girls who tolerate this behavior so guys repeat it.   

It doesn't matter if the guy is a scientist or a janitor at NASA, we're all beautiful, intelligent women who deserve to be treated appropriately and when we're not we're going to get mad.

[Just as this blog was going to post, the Mad Scientist texted another apology.  My life truly is a sitcom.]

Get Your Paws Up Polar Bears! 

I've never been big on Christmas. Ever since my younger brother entered the world on Christmas Eve 1977 it pretty much well ruined things for me.  I've never been a big New Year's Eve party girl either.  I usually leave that night to the couples and the couple of amateurs who try to live it up Diddy style one night a year.

I have however, always been a big believer in the theory that who you see in the days immediately following the New Year set the tone for how your year will be.  In past years, I've cheated a bit and been a little selective in who I see.  I'll strategically invite so-and-so out for brunch or coffee in the hopes that whatever characteristic they possess that I'd like to mirror, will magically rub off on me. 

This year, instead of picking a character, I decided to set the stage and hold an open audition.  No better stage than the annual New Year's Day Coney Island Polar Bear Swim!  I've never done anything like this before.  What would possess me to do such a thing? Some have suggested a boy.  And although I will admit I got the idea from one, what really made me want to do it was the feeling I had last October  when I went into the cold water off of Manhattan Beach and helped a woman who was caught in a cross current. See Brooklyn Baywatch.

Truthfully, no boy or woman lacking boyance had any effect on my decision to do this.  I wanted to start the new year off right with a cold splash of reality.  As I frolicked in the knee deep waters with the other die hard polar bears I realized that in an ocean of people I was by myself.  And that kind of stung.  So I swam out past the crazy costumes, the splashing, and the hooting & hollering until there was some semblance of silence.  That's what I had been craving and it was good to find it.  It was there that I made my promises, or resolutions, or whatever you want to call them.  As I set each goal in my mind, the cold ocean slapped me backed as if we were making a pact.

And though I may still struggle and think I'd like to be more like so-and-so, I know that this is something I can do on my own.  But it is nice to know you have friends waiting for you on the shore with a towel in hand....

Happy 2012, all!