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.

Look at you, Miss Carrie Bradshaw!

In the last year that I've been living in New York, I've had a lot of random experiences with men and dating: a few disastrous first dates, a few stage-5 clingers, and one meet-cute gone wrong. I feel like my stories are starting to rack up, and they basically amount to the quintessential Single Girl in the City experience.

One that I want to start sharing here.

Why? Well, so far, nothing has really worked out with any of these guys. BUT I do have a lot of pretty funny stories. One of my girlfriends in D.C., instead of asking how things are going, has literally started asking if I have any dating misadventure stories for her... So why not share with the internet masses as well?

While there will be several more complete stories to come (including the Tale of the Clinging Irishman), here's a little snapshot from last night:

On my way home at 2 a.m. last night, some random dude, maybe early 30s, literally chased me down from the the corner of my block about 30 feet... told me I'm pretty... got a little too close... and handed me a yellow rose just as I was getting to my door.

I mumbled, "Uhh thanks... Good night," and jammed my keys in the door as quick as I could.

He yelled through the glass, "I'm Sal! Ilivedownthestreet!" all in one breath and ran off.

Uh, what?

But I got a rose out of it. When I woke up this morning, my kitties had completely dismembered the rose where I threw it down on the kitchen table next to my purse. I wish I would have taken a picture, but I wanted to throw it away before they ate any more of it.

And THAT is the kind of thing that happens to me all the time. (OK, sometimes even more interesting things happen.) Get excited!

I like compliments.

Wednesday, the teller at Bank of America told me I had beautiful eyes.

Today, the cabbie told me I was beautiful and had great eyes.

I was creeped out by the bank teller.. since he looked like a hobbit.. but the cabbie was an attractive Italian guy. And I'm starting to notice a trend. Nothing wrong with a little ego-stroking.