How I didn't die on Halloween.

The week of Halloween, I got a strange package from FedEx. I thought, Strange. Since I never ship anything to my apartment. I have everything delivered to work. I went to the FedEx store on Halloween to pick it up and picked up a 12x12, large box, with just a return address from downtown Manhattan on it, but no name.

I started opening the box in the FedEx store because I thought it must have been a mistake and I would give it back to return to sender. But then, in the mounds of packaging peanuts, I came across three, black plastic roses. Err. I dug a little more and found two red Mardi Gras-style masquerade masks. Um. 

That's when logical thought took over:

Shit. I have a stalker.

But I'm so careful. How could I have a stalker? How could someone get my address? This is why I shouldn't live alone.

I decided I couldn't return the box to the sender because I might need it as evidence when I went to the police to tell them about my stalker and why I was going to get killed in my sleep, so I took the box and started walking home without finding out the rest of the contents. (I could feel it was something heavy, but at least it didn't smell like a dead animal or something...)

My heart was pounding as I was walking home. I was thinking about throwing that box in every garbage can I passed, or going home and packing up my kitties and hopping on the first train out of the city, or you know, that I was going to get murdered in my sleep.

But I also thought, There has to be a reasonable explanation.

At home, I was brave enough to continue digging through the packaging peanuts, all the while thinking that they were laced with Anthrax or another equally disagreeable poison. And then I found three large, black candles.

And two very nice, low ball glass tumblers.

And two glass coasters.

And then, a martini shaker.

Holy shit. I have a STALKER who wants to get me drunk!

And just then, when I thought for sure that someone must have hacked one of the countless online dating profiles that I have created and abandoned after 3 hours...

I found a teeny, tiny business card tucked in the cardboard in the bottom of the box.

From Patron XO Cafe, Patron's Facebook page.

I had entered a Facebook giveaway and completely forgot about it. Oops.

But, way to go, Patron, I thought you were a psycho stalker trying to seduce/kill me! Try a return label next time!

(Not that I don't appreciate the gift).

I left this comment on the Facebook page to express my sentiments. Patron never got back to me.

In short, I actually won a giveaway for once! And I didn't even have to die.

P.S. I wish I would have taken pictures of this whole process, but unfortunately, I was too busy thinking I was going to die. And then, I was so mad at Patron that I actually threw away the masks, the candles, and the plastic roses... but I clearly kept the glasses and shaker. 

Single in the City: The one who dated strippers.

For my first random dating experience in NYC, I thought I'd share this little gem:

Last spring, I met a guy whom, for these purposes, I will call Ron. Now, like the majority of men that I've met this year, I met Ron in a bar. Ron had guts. He sat himself down at my table of 5 or 6 girls and started talking to me.

Now, Ron had 2 things going for him: he was super tall, and he was very funny. Genuinely funny. And with the kind of humor that I appreciate most, which, if you're wondering, is dry, sarcastic, and not funny to other people. Sometimes.

Ron had a few things working against him, too: he lived in Queens. Blech. He dressed like a mix of a 90-year-old cruise-goer and a skater punk teenager (think Charlie Sheen bowling shirts plus DC skate shoes and orange cargo shorts). And Ron had a major complex about having never finished college.

With that in mind... We went out a few times. It was fine. I actually ventured into Queens to hang out with him at the Bohemian Beer Garden, which I actually rather enjoyed. But, alas, I believe I enjoyed the atmosphere and the activity (read: beer-drinking) more than Ron.

After that beer garden afternoon-drinking date with Ron, he offered to drive me back to Manhattan (my mom warned about this: "Make him drop you off a few blocks away so he can't see where you live!"). So as we were driving toward the Queensboro back to Manhattan, we passed a neon-lighted, seedy-looking strip joint.

Ron: That's the most famous strip joint in Queens!

Me: Errr...

A taxi passed us at this point with one of those advertisements for a "Gentlemen's Club" featuring a seedy, Russian-looking woman... New Yorkers, you know what I'm talking about. Everyone else, here:



Me, noticing the taxi: I don't see how those ads attract anyone. Those girls are always gross-looking...

Ron half-turned toward me and shouted: Look, strippers are people, too! Everyone has to have a job, OK? Now, I've dated a few of them, and let me tell you, they are real people!

I was too stunned for words. I'm sorry, but a few? Not like, one stripper? But you've dated a few of them? I think I mumbled something like, "Uh OK..." and we rode the rest of the way (all 15-20 minutes) in silence...

Thankfully, I was going out of town the next weekend and had an excuse to not answer his calls. And that was the end of Ron.