Pick Me Up At The Pierre

I only met one guy on Match.com. In person, that is. I was contacted by a man whose profile said he was 44, a businessman, tall, dark, handsome, and we shared the same background. Sounded great, right? I thought so too.

He wrote to me a few times, then suggested we meet. I figured, why not? I was going to chance it.

We made arrangements. He was going to be at a business meeting at the Pierre Hotel, which was near my apartment. He suggested meeting there after his meeting. I arrived at the Pierre at the scheduled time. I wore a cute pair of black slacks, turquoise blue sweater (it was winter) and a beautiful pair of turquoise blue suede Christian Louboutin booties, of course! Oh, and a little black and gold Chanel purse. Mmmm. Let’s just say, Blue Shoes was rockin’!

I looked for him at the bar. A tall, dark, handsome man in a suit got up and walked towards me. The closer her got, the more I realized it was him. My date, Hyman. Not bad, I thought.

He smiled, “Are you Blue Shoes Manhattan?” “Yes. Hyman?” He gave me a kiss hello and walked me over to his table. On the way, he informed me that he was not yet finished with his business meeting, but I could join them. He didn’t want me to mention that we were just meeting for the first time on a blind Match.com date. I agreed, but thought ‘Here we go!’

So, we are at the table, of about ten men. He introduced me. Everyone was very nice. But it really seemed like a very high-powered business meeting. It was actually really fun. I got along with them all so well, that they were all kissing me good-bye by the end of the meeting.

Hyman was really impressed with me. Hey, I made him look good. I probably made him like a couple of million dollars or something. What’d I get? A martini. But it was a really good martini, by the way.

Anyway, afterwards, we went to another spot nearby. I had another martini. Probably NOT a good idea, since I never ate dinner. He didn’t drink at all. But we were really getting along. Really connecting. He seemed to be into me. I seemed to be into him. Although I got a little tipsy from the martinis. The millionaire matchmaker, Patty Stanger says, “No more than two drinks on a date.” She’s right. Well, I only had two.

He walked get me in a cab at the end of the date. Then, called me when he got home, to tell me what a wonderful time he’d had. I was thrilled. So happy that Match.com had worked! I was really looking forward to seeing him again.

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Hmmm.

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Haven’t heard from Hyman. I’ll email him.

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Hmmm.

Maybe I’ll text him.

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Maybe I’ll call him.

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Valentine’s Day. I got a text picture of a rose. Great. Happy Valentine’s Day to me. And you wonder why I hate Valentine’s Day?

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This is torture already.

Ok, ok. You get the picture, right?

Right. You guessed it. I never heard from friggin’ Hyman again.

Screw Match.com!!

AND the freakin’ Pierre Hotel.

Why I Hate Flowers

Receiving flowers from a suitor is like the kiss of death. I don’t really understand it myself. But when I get flowers from a man, I get totally turned off. Does anybody out there feel this way?

Do I need therapy for this?

It goes way back to my high school days.

I have to tell you some stories I have about receiving flowers. The first time I got flowers from a man was at my sweet 16. There was a senior in high school who was crushing on me. Actually, I think he was in love with me. And that really scared me. I mean, I was only 15, and mentally, I was about 7. But I was cute and had a sexy body even then, which had just started to develop, and I didn’t know what to do with.

I was smart and talented and by my early teens, caught the eye of several guys in school. I was even involved in a love triangle at this age. I had these two hot seniors after me. I liked one as a friend, but was attracted to the other. One was a good boy, the other a, you guessed it, a bad boy. Guess which one I was attracted to? Hmmm. Right. The bad boy, of course. It was only high school, but it was the set-up for the rest of my life. Always attracted to the bad boys and making the wrong choices about men.

But I’m supposed to be talking about flowers today. I’ll get to the whole bad boy syndrome another day.

Shimmel was the good boy. I knew he had a crush on me. When Valentine’s Day came that year, he gave me a love card and a romantic gift. Now, mind you, I was not dating him at all. He was just a friend in the theatre group I was in. At a rehearsal, he hands me this card and gift. I did not know what to do with it. I was afraid to tell my mother because I thought she would kill me. She eventually found out. But after I got that card I felt really nauseous and uncomfortable.Just a really bad gut feeling. Even thought he was a nice guy. He was not a player in any way.

My 16^th birthday was the following month. My parents threw me a sweet 16 party at our home.Close friends and family were invited. Shimmel didn’t come, but the doorbell rang during the party. I answered. It was a flower arrangement. From who? Shimmel.

I said, “Oh, thanks.” Meanwhile, I was thinking, “Yuk.” And I had that uncomfortable feeling in my gut again. I didn’t know what the feeling was, but I would get that feeling often throughout the rest of my life. I came to learn that it was my body telling me something was wrong. I learned how to listen to it in order to make better decisions in my life.

The flowers made me feel very uncomfortable about being around Shimmel. I couldn’t help it.

Fast forward to college. A school friend was setting me up on a blind date. She thought the date and I would get along because we were from the same background. Yeah, that’s always a great only reason to date someone. I thought I was much better than blind dating (at that time, I did, now I’m all for it). He was also supposed to be a great dancer. At least that would be something we had in common. I was really excited though. We were going to double date with my friend and her date. The blind date shows up at my house, skinny, dorky, in a three-piece suit, holding out one rose. I was immediately unattracted and grossed out by the flower.

We went to a really cool restaurant, which became a club after hours. I’d always wanted to go to this club. When the music started, he asked me to dance. We got on the dance floor and started to hustle. Ok, it was 1979. HE SUCKED! He sucked so bad, he was throwing me all over the dance floor. Then all of a sudden I was on the floor! Oh no! How embarrassing.

I never saw him again.

Flash to my mid twenties. I was casually dating several people. Not ‘dating’ in the biblical sense, mind you. Two of them were named Hasatan. The one Hasatan #1 was the son of a very successful New York City businessman, handsome, and pampered. We had some really great chemistry, but he was pressuring me and so we were not getting along very well anymore. I liked him a lot, but we had decided to call it quits.

Hasatan #2 was a loser, long haired, ugly, immigrant from Queens, who I’d met at a Queens nightclub. He had asked me out several times. I refused. He wore me down, so I decided to go.We had an ok time, but when my parents met him, they thought the devil just walked into their home.

I refused follow up date invitations from Hasatan #2.

Several months later, I received a gorgeous flower arrangement at my parental home. From Hasatan.

Hasatan who? Which Hasatan? I was hoping it was from the rich Hasatan and not devil Hasatan. Days passed and I didn’t call either of them.

Well, I thought whoever sent them, it was a nice gesture. I was softening in my older age.

Phone rang. It was Hasatan #2. “Did you get my flowers?” Of course it was Satan Hasatan. I know I’d been turned off to flowers in the past, but this time, I kind of thought it was sweet. It must have been the devil’s work penetrating my brain.

I softened, and accepted another date with him. I’m sure it’s because the flowers worked that time.

P.S. Hasatan #2 ended up being my husband. Yes. I married Satan. And within months I left him, after months and months of torture that I will not go into here. Let’s just say, it was hell.

After I left him, he tried to make contact.

In the months following, it was Valentine’s Day. I was at work. The secretaries called. I should come to the office, I had a delivery. When I got to the front office, I saw a huge arrangement of red roses sitting at the counter. I felt sick. My gut felt like someone had jabbed a knife in it. I asked my friend, Debby to read the card, but not to read it out loud to me. I didn’t want to hear it.

She told me, it was from him. Hasatan #2.

It made me frightened, sad, and ill simultaneously.

No wonder I hate Valentine’s Day

... and flowers.

Taxi Cab Confections

Once I went out with a New York City Taxi Cab driver. IN his taxicab.

But I got to sit in the front.

I was in my early twenties at the time. How’d you guess?

It didn’t last.

Here’s how we met.

Well, once I was out at a club in Long Island. (I was pretty much a party girl back then.) Although I admit, I dated my share of DJ’s, I really was never into the club workers (bar tenders, doormen, DJ’s, etc.). But one night a lighting guy caught my eye. I supposed I noticed him because he was in the DJ booth. (So much for that theory.) Really cute. I didn’t meet him that night.

Several months later I was at another club in Queens. (See, I told you about the party girl thing.) There he was, the cute lighting guy. I don’t remember his name. He wasn’t working or anything, just at the bar. So, somehow we met and hung out the rest of the evening. He took my number and called the following week for a date. He was so cute, of course I accepted.

So on the evening of the date, he shows up to pick me up in a yellow cab! I was like, “Who cares! He’s so cute.”

“Taxi!!”

He took me to the Hard Rock Café in the yellow cab. I was sitting up front. People were trying to hail him as we drove over there, even though he had his light off.

At the Hard Rock, we spotted Brian Setzer from the Stray Cats (an 80’s punk band). That was exciting. Taxi driver and I got along. He was really nice. He even drove me back to Long Island. No charge!

My girlfriends started to make fun. When I, or they would talk about him, they’d reach their arm out, point, and yell, “Taxi!” We all kinda thought it was hysterical. And it was! That private joke lasted years after Taxi was gone. Actually, ‘til this day.

We saw each other several times after that. I liked him, but I don’t think it was really going anywhere. I was doing a play in Manhattan. He stopped by the theatre before rehearsal one night, in the cab, of course. I went outside to meet him. He needed to get something from the cab.

Flowers. For me.

Hmm.

Normal women would have loved the gesture. But it freaked me out. Flowers have always have had that effect on me. But, he gave me flowers.

That was the last time I saw him.

Don’t know, was it the flowers? Was it him? Or was it the yellow cab? I guess I’ll never know. But it was sure nice having a personal limo driver for a couple of weeks.

Bacteria On My Couch: To wear underwear or not to wear underwear? That is the question.

A reader, Mary Catherine Lunsford , commented on the VPL (visible panty line) dilemma that we are facing these days. This is a very serious matter. Critical, in fact. To wear underwear or not to wear underwear? That is the question.

Mary mentioned the fact that many women are ditching the whole underwear/VPL problem along with their panties. No thong, no boy shorts, no bikini. In fact, no bloomers at all! Commando.

Ok, fine. So that takes care of that. Right? Well, yeah. It alleviates the VPL. But what about the bacteria on my couch?

She is worried about peoples’ “disgusting body secretions on public seating,” which is why she avoids the subway! According to Mary, “the world has enough bacteria … pretty soon we’re all going to have to stay in our houses…”

She’s right. As it is, we all have to run around with anti-bacterial cream in our purses. Because God knows what is hanging around on banisters, counters, and doorknobs. And countless other things we haven’t even thought about!

But you can’t. You can’t think about this too hard or you’ll go crazy. You WON’T ever leave the house, for sure.

But you CAN think about whether or not people are wearing underwear. That never hurt anyone. Well, unless, of course, they are sitting on your couch. Or, on the bus before you. Ok. Stop. Here we go again, getting germ phobic!!

My sister, Hadassah, does this. Well, she doesn’t NOT wear underwear. When she people-watches, she looks for,,, not VPL, but VTL (Visible Thong Lines). When she sees them, she gets all out of whack. She gets angry and thinks that the women wearing white pants and very apparent thong lines are bad people. They are not bad people. They are just people without mirrors.

My poor sis. Works herself into a frenzy. I just laugh.

What should these women do? Should they wear big fat bloomers with their white pants? Should they wear no undies at all? I’m not 100% sure of the answer either. You will hear fashion experts say that you should wear nude boy shorts with white pants. I think you’ll get a weird line with that. Or wear a nude panty. But then you run the risk of the panty riding up into your crack - wedgy. And you know how horrifying that looks. You know, but if you wear a thong, man, you’re gonna be able to see the thong line!! Even if it’s a nude color.

Now, I’m assuming we all know that we have to wear nude undergarments with white, right? Let’s just make sure we’ve got that straight. Ok. Good. Now I can continue.

You know, it’s springtime, summer is coming. People will be wearing white pants or shorts or white sundresses with their flip flops. (Do people HAVE to wear friggin’ flip flops with EVERYTHING? Which is a whole other story.) So we’ve gotta talk about this now, before anyone gets caught on the bus or on Fifth Avenue with their cellulite showing through their white garments while texting on their Blackberry thinking their shit doesn’t stink.

That’s actually fantastic! It could make my entire day!!

We can make fun of those women, we just don’t want to BE them! So, let’s continue.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah, the white pants panty party. I once wore an off-white pantsuit. The pants were snug and didn’t have a lining. The jacket was short. I wore an off-white sequin top with it. I opted not to wear a thong, but a pair of nude panties with them. There may have been a very faint panty line just under my touché. Nothing that was offensive at all. But people commented on my panties! Someone said, “You should have worn a thong with those pants.” Someone else said some other stupid thing.

What?

Who died and made them the fucking fashion police? Why did they have the right to comment on my panties anyway?? Even if I WAS wrong. Which I do not believe I was.

I don’t feel I should have worn a thong. You definitely would have seen the VTL. And that to me is obscene. A stupid normal brief line is not. Now, I’m a straight woman, and when I see a thong line, I kinda think of sex. Now, if I’M thinking it, what the heck are the perv men out there thinking? I’d rather be wearing a bloomer than have every degenerate homeless guy or business man on the street be thinking of sex when he sees my thong line in my ass as I strut down Lexington Avenue.

Also, with a thong, you will see cellulite, which you won’t see as ealily with panties. Who needs that? A little material goes a long way. As I said, I need to have more of a barrier between me and my co-workers. Just one piece of thin material is not enough!

Another thing panties do is prevent jiggling. Even if you’re real thin, let’s face it people. Butts jiggle like jello. Even the most in shape butts do. They don’t want to jiggle. But they will if they are not tamed. So, if your pants, shorts, skirt are not tight enough and you’re wearing a thong, that shit’s gonna flap in the breeze not to mention every time you blink. Ok, maybe there’s a time and place for moving butt cheeks. But it’s not in the office or on Fifth Avenue at noon.

Another option would be no panties at all with the white pants. Talk about cellulite, no barrier, AND jelly jello badunkadunk. Not pretty. Please don’t do it. It’s bad for white pants and with skirts and dresses. Well, let’s just say, do you really wanna leave your DNA all over Manhattan?

One more option is Spanx! Yey! Perfect! No cellulite, a strong barrier between you and the world, no jiggling badunkadunk, no VPL, no VTL, no bodily fluids! I think we’re good!! Now we can leave the house.

Here's Mary Catherine Lunsford's website. http://marycatherinelunsford.com/default.aspx

The Right Shade

My sister, Hadassah, and I have been on a quest for the right shade of red lipstick for the past 30 plus years. You’d think it was easy. Red is red. No so much. There are a million shades of red. Some are bluer, some more orange. Then there’s the consistency; matt, glossy, creamy.

Trying them on in the stores is impossible. If you wanna go cheap and use a drug store brand, you can’t try them on because they are sealed shut by cardboard and plastic and you need a jack hammer to remove it. Sometimes they have a picture of the color on the front of the package. Sometimes you can see the tip of the lipstick through a clear portion of the packaging. Sometimes neither. If you CAN open up a tube and look at the color in the store, do you really want to try that one after a million people have tried it? There’s more than bacteria in those. Then, if you do buy one of these, the color is never the same shade as it looked in the packaging when you take it home. And then you can’t return it!

Speaking of more than bacteria, have you been to Sephora? There, you can try on any makeup you like. Anyone off the street can go into Sephora and try anything they like. They provide alcohol and clean applicators. Even if people do use the alcohol, I’m sure they’re not using it properly. I’m positive that if they tested the sample make up in there they’d find way more than bacteria on the stuff. I’ve gotten deathly ill after some visits to Sephora. There’s more bacteria in one tube of lip gloss at Sephora than on a toilet seat at Lucky Chang’s washroom.

But even if you don’t get deathly ill trying on the stuff, the lighting is so bad, that if you find something that you like, it never looks the same when you get it home. If it is any consolation, you can return at Sephora.

Same goes for shopping for make up at a department store make up counter. It has to be a whole production to try something on. The salesgirl corners you and has to sit you down and apply the make up for you. She doesn’t even put it on straight and then does a big sales pitch and you feel all obligated. So much pressure! How can you make decision?? I can’t. When you finally do pick one, you bring it home, try it on, at it’s a totally different color than when you tried it on in the store!

Then, when you finally finally love one, they discontinue it! And you find yourself scraping your favorite lipstick out of the bottom of the container with a tiny brush in order to get one more use out of it.

Not to mention, now they tell you you have to throw your make up out after two months of wearing it, otherwise it’s laced with bacteria! Even if you just spent $45 on it! What a racket!

The same goes for bras and underwear too. As soon as you find the exact right panty in the exact right size and the exact right material, that doesn’t ride so far up your butt crack and give you the biggest wedgy you ever had, it gets DISCONTINUED!! So then, you end up wearing your old scrap pairs of panties, that don’t ride up your ass crack, forever. Sewing up its holes by hand in order to get just one more wearing out of them.

Yea, right! Panties that cover your touché. What a concept! Maybe you don’t feel like wearing a thong. Maybe you don’t feel like having the only thing between you and the world be a thin piece of material. I know I don’t! I need to have more of a barrier between me and my platonic friends and co-workers!!

So, what’s the big freakin’ deal with the VPL (visible panty line) anyway? Why is it so horrible? Taboo? Oooo, she has VPL! She’s a fashion disaster! People are so appalled about it. They’re so obsessed; they venture to risk UTI’s (urinary tract infections) galore. Not to mention the discomfort of a bleeding, scabbing, shitty, dingle berry ass crack.

I was watching VH1’s 50 most horrible fashion ‘DON’TS’. I watched that friggin show for two hours to find out the number one fashion DON’T. It was so boring, I wanted to poke my eyes out. So, you know what #1 was? VPL. Are you freaking kidding me? If, God forbid, I wear underwear, I’m a fashion DON’T?! Kiss my ass in Macy’s window! With my big fat bloomers!!

Okay, okay. I gotta calm down.

Now no one really wears red lipstick anymore. Instead we wear light-colored gloss. But it’s still the same story. It’s still really hard to find the perfect shade for the right occasion. You need an everyday color and a going out color. Or various versions for the same occasions.

Because of this dilemma, I have a draw full of never been used lip products. Even if I like the color, they’re over two months old and now they’re no damn good anyway.

My Mom never buys lipstick. She just waits until Hadassah and I are getting rid of ours. Then she steals them. Chanel, YSL, Dior, Max Factor. She’s not picky. She takes ‘em. Bacteria and all.

Tiki and Me

It was last summer. I was parking my car across the street from my building. Of course I was excited about my ‘good spot’, as well I should be. It was a real find. There I was, in the car, parking perfectly. Then, I was unloading; bending, lifting, etc. Let’s just say, I was there for a while. I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a man standing at the curb, about eight feet from me, watching me. I then looked up at him. He kept his head down but his eyes looked up, as he spoke on his cell. He made no eye contact. Just talked and stared, not at my eyes, but more on my butt as I leaned down and up, moved back and forth, from the front seat to the trunk.

He was an African American man, dressed in white. White shirt, white shorts, white sneakers, white baseball cap.

Hot.

Wait a minute. He looks familiar. Is that? No. Maybe it is? Could that be…

Tiki Barber?

I think it is.

Cool!

Tiki Barber AND he was totally checking me out.

I was sure it was him. Didn’t speak to him. But Tiki and I totally had a moment. I walked away to go inside. I looked back. Tiki was gone. I think he walked into the building. I think Tiki Barber lives across the street from me!

It was quite an ego boost that Tiki checked out my butt. I told my whole family! My mom and sister were like, “Who’s Tiki Barber?”

“Ugh!”

A few weeks later, I was happily parked on my block, across the street from my building again. (I was having a lucky couple of weeks!) Well, it was a Saturday, and I was going to drive to Long Island to see the fam. I left the building, walked towards my car. As I approached it, I noticed another car double parked, blocking my Toyota. It was a gorgeous, white, Bentley convertible.

Hot.

The driver, however, was an asshole.

He took his sweet time, moving to let me out. I really didn’t notice what he looked like. I was much too intent on getting the heck out of my great spot! As I pulled out, there was a little traffic on the street. Some trucks and cars double-parked as well. So, it was taking a moment. All of a sudden some obnoxious car pulls out and darts in front of me to try to make it out before me.

“What an asshole!”

I look over at the jerk who cut me off.

“What?” It was the gorgeous, white, Bentley convertible. With Tiki Barber in it!! Or was it his twin brother? Maybe. Either way, they’re both assholes!

There it was. My second Tiki Barber moment.

I told Doris (my sis) about the Tiki encounter. She goes, “Yeah, I think he lives on your block.” She remembered him reporting on a little incident we had on our block a few years back. He had mentioned that he actually saw the incident happen out the window of his apartment. Who would think Tiki and I shared something so special.

Today, I was walking into work and passed a newspaper stand. The headline and front picture of the daily news said something about ‘Tiki something or other.’ I did a double take and walked back to see the paper. Tiki, my Tiki was pulling a Tiger Woods. Oh no! Not my Tiki! Say it ain’t so.

But of course Tiki is a dirt bag. Isn’t everybody these days? After all, he WAS checking out my ass a couple of months ago! Right outside the home he shares with his wife and kids for the love of God!

As I walked towards my building that evening, daydreaming, I noticed a shleppy guy in the street, carrying a few huge cameras with really long lenses. He was on my side of the street, but was looking at the building across the street and walking back and forth. Tiki’s building.

PAPARAZZI! Cool!

I didn’t hang around to watch the media frenzy.

Hmm. Maybe I can sell my Tiki story to TMZ and cash in. LOL.

The Shoe Spatula of Love

Remember Schmooly? The guy with the OBT (One Big Thing)? As I mentioned, every guy has one big thing wrong with him. Schmooly was the one that tickled my tonsils before the first date even began. I was mortified and could barely get through dinner after being date raped in the car outside the restaurant.

Well, despite the rough start, Schmooly stayed in my life for years after. We sort of dated here and there throughout the years, but mostly, we never got further than friends, as you could imagine given the tongue thrashing.

We ran in similar circles and knew many of the same people. Therefore, we bumped into each other often. He’s always held a torch for me and tried asking me out every so often. So, if I wasn’t dating anyone at the time, sometimes I’d say yes. Go figure. This went on for years. I’m not kidding, really, years. Way too long. I mean, I think we tried dating about six times throughout the 17 years that I knew him.

One of the last times we dated, we were seeing each other for about three months or so. I wasn’t getting drunk before our dates anymore (so that I could be attracted to him). Instead, I was just not attracted to him. I tried. I really tried. But wasn’t feeling it. I know it wasn’t fair to him, but I thought that maybe my feelings would grow. And they did. I really cared for Schmooly. Only thing was I found it difficult to be affectionate towards him. Okay. I know, I know. Give me a break already.

Towards the end of the summer of dating Schmooly, he became impatient. One evening, he said to me, while walking down the street on the upper east side, “I have love for you. I’d like to have children with you.” I would just like to point out the, “have love” not “I love”. Of course, I had to go and say something stupid like, “You want to have kids with me? Well, what are you waiting for? I’m not getting any younger.” Then it turned into a question of how old I was. Then he started talking to me about how he needed for affection, etc.

Ok, I have to be honest; I really hate a conversation like that. I really don’t ever want to talk about shit like that. You shouldn’t have to discuss how much or how little affection you want or need. But I guess he felt he needed to go there. I kind of became a little obnoxious, taking a napkin and writing down how much affection he should get at a particular time in a dating relationship. He just smiled. But he didn’t like it.

And how dare he tell me he’d like to have children with me, but then not follow it up with anything. He’s tells me he “has love” for me. What the fuck is that? How non-committal can you friggin’ get??

So, as you can see, that night was kind of a disaster. The weeks following, I didn’t see Schmooly very much. I think I was avoiding him and he was avoiding me. But that did give me time to think about what he said and how I felt about him. I really did care for him, as a person. And if he really did want to pursue a future, I would be willing to try.

Finally, he called …. To cancel plans. Then proceeded to start a conversation about the last conversation we’d had. I told him that I knew what I wanted. I thought that he was a really great guy and that I would …. Yeah, like what I just said in the last paragraph. As a response, he said he wasn’t sure what he wanted. I told him I deserved a person who knew they wanted me, that he had 17 years to figure out if he wanted me, and if he didn’t know by now he wasn’t every going to know.

He said, “let’s be friends.”

I said, “I have enough friends.”

“Oh.”

And that was that. Schmooly was out of my life,,, again.

Hmmm. Where was I?

Oh, right. Now I remember, the spatula of love…

So, a couple of years later, my Pop died. And low and behold, there’s Schmooly at the wake. I thought, ‘he loves me!’. And after that, we were in touch again. He’d schedule a lunch, or a trip to the camera store. I thought it was really just a friend activity, but then he’d plant a big kiss right on my mouth when he said good-bye. Huh? Which really threw me off. Again, this went on for a while. This very non-committal dating/friend ritual. It was getting old. Fast. ‘What the heck’s going on? Where do I stand?? I think he’s stringing me along!!’

While this was going on, my birthday came up.

“Good morning, Blue Shoes. Happy Birthday!” my doorman exclaims on Saturday morning.

“Why thank you, Jose.” Smile “Um, how’d you know it was my birthday?”

“Oh, your friend left you this. Dropped it off last night.” Jose hands me a wrapped present with ‘Happy Birthday Blue Shoes Manhattan’ on it.

“Who could this be from??” I thought, as I opened the card. It’s from Schmooly, wishing me a Happy B’day. Unwrapped the gift. It’s a spatula, in the shape of a shoe. A pump.

I called Schmooly from the car. “Thanks for the birthday present. But what time did you come by?”

“After midnight last night.”

“Why? Didn’t you want to see me to give it to me? At midnight on a Friday night, I’d either be out or asleep. It’s as if you didn’t want to see me or something.”

He just chuckled. “Well, I was out with some friends and thought I’d just drop it off.”

Is he an asshole or what?

How does a thoughtful birthday present turn into an insult? How does someone make that happen?? But stupid ass Schmooly did.

What did the shoe spatula represent? It was thoughtful, because he recognized my passion for shoes and he remembered my birthday. But the fact that he didn’t want to see me to give it to me in person meant that he just wanted to be friends. If so, then why would he even bother? I told him already. I didn’t want to be friends!

Don’t buy a woman a thoughtful birthday gift if you just want to be friends. It fucks us up, so stop it assholes!

I saw Schmooly recently. He was with his wife. Twenty years younger than he. Pregnant. Extremely shortly following their quickie wedding. I wonder if he “has love” for her?