The Flingstress... Going On Hiatus

I am taking a deliberate break from dating.  I have a few reasons for the break so let me see if I can explain.

When Joseph broke up with me it was a HUGE rejection.  The person who was supposed to love me forever walked away. Seemingly without much difficulty. It's embarrassing to admit but I desperately needed male attention. A LOT of male attention. I recognize that I needed the affirmation and confirmation that men still liked me. Still wanted me.  That Joseph was wrong. That I was still desirable and worthy of love.

I no longer feel that overwhelming need. I feel more settled. Stronger. Happier.

At the same time, I don’t know exactly what I want at the moment. I never saw myself staying in DC this long. Being in Ireland made me realize that DC isn’t home. And I’m not sure it ever will be. Ultimately I either need to make it home or I need to leave.

So I decided to take a break from dating. A dating cleanse, if you will. A man-page turned man-fast. At first I thought maybe I’d do it until 2013.  Now I’m unsure when I’ll return to dating. When it feels right, I suppose.

Flingstress out. For the moment, at least.

Fifty Shades of Gray... For Reals

I won’t beat around the bush, people. I recently met a man who was unabashedly entrenched in Dominant/submissive culture.

Looking back I suppose there are signs I could’ve seen. On our first date, he asked me how much I weighed. WTF. Who does that? THEN, when I wouldn’t tell him, he picked me up and curled me. CURLED me! As if I were a dumbbell at the gym. He put me back down and said “Yep, that’s what I thought.” Admittedly it was kind of hot. I’m not a small girl by any means, so it was sort of fun being picked up like a doll. Ted is definitely a strong, strapping man.

On our second date he just laid it all out in front of me. He said he had run into the problem of connecting with women until he reveals he hopes to have a dominant/submissive element in the bedroom.  So now he just tells them upfront. He just puts it all on the table. 

So Ted is giving me a bunch of scenarios (and mind you, we haven’t done anything physical at this point besides kissing) and I’m trying to maintain an open mind. THEN we are discussing boundaries.

The beginning of a relationship (any relationship, even friendship) is precarious. If you reveal too much too soon, it will scare someone off. If you hold back too much, you won't be able to build a meaningful relationship - and it will stay in the superficial realm. There is an inclination to "lay it all out there" because "if he/she is meant for me, he/she will accept me." I call this emotional vomit. I've been guilty of it myself (telling people too soon about my disengagement/past relationships and watching their eyes glaze over).

We are all freaks and want to let our freak flag fly, but I say bring it down half-mast until you recognize the approaching ship as friend or foe.  Had we gotten to know each other and he slowly started to sprinkle some of his kinkiness in, that might've been a different story.  Instead I ran for the hills because, let’s face it, you never get to come on my face.  

Free Fitness Test

I fancy myself a fairly savvy person when it comes to the opposite sex. But sometimes they make no damn sense.

I’m headed to the gym and stop in Starbucks to grab a protein plate. I’m looking for somewhere to sit when a good-looking guy says “you can sit here, some guy is sitting there.” It just happens to be right in front of him. Ha. Nicely played, sir.

Oh. I forgot to mention what I look like. My hair is greasy and in a pony-tail. I’m wearing ugly sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt. It’s not even the cute gym outfit – you know the one – tight yoga pants with a flattering tank top. Nope. It’s laundry time, folks, and I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel today.

He chats me up as I’m scarfing down my eggs, peanut butter and cheese.  He’s older than me (I find out later he’s 39) and used to play professional basketball abroad. It’s not until he stands up that I realize he’s 6’6. He slides me his business card and says he’d love to take me out for dinner sometime. What? Really? I look like CRAP. I’m not exaggerating. I would tell you if I looked cute.

I say goodbye to tall man and head into the gym. The gym manager nods in my direction and I smile a friendly “hello.” On my way out of the gym, he stops me to make small talk. His name is Joseph. Jesus. I just can’t win. His middle name is Kouros – he’s Iranian American. I inform him I’ll be calling him Kouros. He seems to like that. I'm on my way out when he stops me.

I’m thoroughly amused. I’m amused that a. I am getting picked up by two men who are sixteen years apart (Kouros is 23) and b. I look terrible!   

To my further amusement, I’m again reminded that age really doesn’t matter. The 39 year old basketball player flaked on the day we were supposed to go out whereas the 23 year old persisted (and asked my friend to encourage me to call him). Kouros and I went out on a date and it was pleasant enough.

Kouros still lives with his mother, plays a lot of video games and smokes marijuana regularly. So not exactly long-term potential.  But I appreciated his move. The “fitness card trick” is a new one, even for me. 

If She Were President, She'd Be Babe-raham Lincoln

I like Colin’s profile immediately. He’s smart, ambitious and enjoys helping others – he volunteers! SWOON. Under the “activities that you enjoy” section he states that he likes running, swimming, biking, the occasional cross dressing, watching terrible kung fu movies and hanging out with friends. Well, alright.

We discuss our mutual love for costumes and he is the only guy so far on Match.com to compliment me on my Wayne’s World costume. (Most guys are COMPLETELY turned off by how well I can pull off Wayne Campbell.) For a cute girl, I certainly rock the crap out of being a man. One time, a chick thought I was her soul mate because she was dressed as Babe-raham Lincoln – and she tried to make out with me. Schwing!

Colin makes it to a second date and we’re having an immensely playful conversation. I tell him that I think his profile is funny and that most guys take themselves SUPER seriously. He looks at me inquisitively and so I continue about how the “occasional cross dressing” line thrown in there is hysterical.  He stops smiling.

Oh. You. Were. Serious.

Colin is buoyed by my reaction. And his dance moves are *quite* atrocious. He looks surprisingly pretty as a woman, especially given the fact he's a handsome manly man. He’s scared that I’m going to disappear. That’s when I say “I’ll see you on Saturday and I’m bringing my wigs.”

I show up to his apartment in a short blonde bob wig looking fabulous. I feel like a mobster’s wife. À la Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface:

I have a long, black wig and a wavy, red wig with me as well. Colin and I are having a blast – laughing and giggling as we trade wigs.  I’m truly having a good time but two things hit me as I’m adjusting the black wig on him… a. this feels like being with a girlfriend and b. this is fun because I love costumes (if I could do it all over again, I’d be a costume designer for Broadway musicals).  But for him this is something sexual.  Sigh.  He’s disappointed and honestly, so am I. Why can’t there be chemistry between us? Am I not open-minded enough?

I learned a few important lessons. 1. You can NEVER judge a book by its cover… this guy was waving his freak flag underneath the clean-cut, conservative government employee exterior. 2. When someone says they cross dress on their Match.com profile, you should believe them. 3. I can’t date a man who looks better in a ball gown than I do. Period.

Age Is a Number. Maturity Is a Choice.

I turned 30 recently. On a unicorn while playing guitar, apparently. I can hardly believe it. Am I really this old? Ha. I don’t feel old. I feel better than I ever have and I would dare say I’m cuter now than I was five years ago. So go me!

I’ve always been biased about dating younger men… I jokingly tell guy friends that they don’t become “acceptable” to date until age 30. Part of the reason is what I call Man Child Syndrome. Many men suffer from MCS (a very serious condition, I assure you, that prevents men from growing up and becoming responsible, committed adults). But what I’ve come to realize is that age has little to do with it. Hell, Joseph was a 32 year old man child who would play StarCraft for hours and forget to feed himself. 

I meet Flash on match.com. He emails me a thoughtful, interesting message and his pictures suggest he’s a handsome fellow.  AND I’m only slightly agitated by the fact he graduated from the University of M*ch*g*n. Oh. Wait. He’s 23. Shit. I don’t want to ignore him – so I write a nice, witty reply (duh) but I include at the end “I see we have quite an age difference… thoughts?”

His response is good. He says: “Our age difference doesn't bother me at all. I am a fun 20-something, but I'm looking for something meaningful.” He goes on to say “I want to start a family in the not-so-distant future as well. I'm not going to rush to the altar, but that's not prudent regardless of one's age. I want to meet the woman of my dreams, who challenges me and inspires me, and who I love unconditionally.” Well alright. Game on.

We meet for drinks near Foggy Bottom. He’s dressed very sharply – looks great in a blazer – and I’m relieved to not feel old around him. Our conversation at the bar (over good whiskey I might add) is sparkling. It’s comfortable and easy. It’s flirty and fun. Flash is doing and saying all of the right things.

THEN. We’re talking about our career goals. He tells me, without any shred of doubt or sarcasm, that he’s going to be president of the United States someday. I smile – this isn’t the first time I’ve heard this recently (ah the joys of dating in DC). But to be fair the other guy is Scottish and thus CAN’T be the POTUS.  Flash says jokingly “I can’t date a woman who can’t see herself being First Lady.” Whoa. Pump. The. Brakes.

I battle an internal struggle because on the one hand, Flash is highly principled, mature, knows himself well, has integrity and has values/morals that are aligned with mine.  BUT doesn’t the fact I’ve kissed many girls preclude me from public office? Ha. Do I really see myself as a politician’s wife? I know the answer. And it bums me out.

I tell Flash that while I find him extremely appealing, I can’t sign up for the life he’s choosing. I quote a self-help book I read after my break-up (oh, there were many): “you live a life, not a relationship.” At the end of the day, I know I want a simpler existence than that of public service.

The future POTUS taught me something very valuable though… it’s not someone’s age that determines their maturity level or likelihood to be ready for a long-term relationship. Flash and I have resolved to be friends – and I have already offered my services as wing woman to help him meet some ladies. Look how mature we are! How honest and open!  Man, turning 30 has really made me super wise.   

I've Been a Wild Rover For Many a Year

My goal for 2012 was to play guitar and sing at an open mic night. I accomplished that goal early in the year – in March actually! – and now I’m a regular at a bluegrass open mic night in Alexandria, Virginia.  Heck, I even have people drunkenly request that I play “that Irish song where people clap.” I have arrived, folks.

I show up and am greeted by my fellow regulars – Barry the harmonica player, Steve on bass and Kathy and Alex (the cutest married acoustic guitar duo EVER).  My friend Macie drops by and we both raise our eyebrows as a cute guy walks past our table. Well hello. On my way back from the bathroom I contemplate approaching him but he’s in a socially ambiguous situation. You know the kind where it’s unclear who’s with who and what kind of crowd it is? Like… is that his girlfriend or a coworker? Ambiguous = steer clear.

I sit back down and am enjoying the company of two younger men (Alex’s brother and friend) while we rock out to Kathy and Alex playing Zac Brown Band’s Chicken Fried. I’m belting out “you know I like my chicken fried, cold beer on a Friday night” when cute man is headed out with his ambiguous friends. He smiles at me and I smile back. Bam! Done. He literally back tracks and walks right up to me with his hand extended. “Hi, I’m Tom.” He doesn’t care that I’m in the middle of my own ambiguous situation (for all he knows I’m here with my boyfriend). I dig it. He is extremely social even with the guys at the table. A man with manners! Guess where he’s from: OHIO.  Anyone else surprised?

When it’s my turn to play, Tom is cheering and clapping the loudest. Afterward a group of us head to the Irish pub nearby for a round of Guinness (which he buys for me and my friends – again with the manners!) and Irish whiskey.  THEN. He pulls me out to dance with him and the man can dance!! Wait. A nice-mannered man from Ohio who can dance? Be still my heart.

Alex and Kathy take off and Tom and I close the bar down. We walk outside and neither one of us wants the night to end. He suggests we take a walk down to the water and I whole-heartedly endorse the suggestion. I’m in the middle of venting about a work situation when he kisses me mid-sentence. Well alright! It’s a good kiss. More bonus points for Ohio man. 

 

 

He hops the fence – not NEARLY as gracefully as I do – and we walk down to the docks. I feel like I’m in high school again. Except I wasn’t nearly cool enough to hop a fence and make out with a cute guy on some random person’s boat in high school. We finally head back to my car at 3 am. He asks me to come back to his hotel with him but is gracious when I politely decline his offer. Can’t blame a guy for trying!

He texts me the following morning from the airport to say he can’t get this one Irish song out of his head. I tell him the only cure for Wild Rover is MORE Wild Rover. Unfortunately he’s moving from Ohio to Denver so more Wild Rover in either one of our future’s is unlikely. Sigh.

Big In The Pants Update

It's strange. Just as I was posting the story about him... he sends me a text. Maybe his ears were burning. But seriously dude?! It's been over a month and a half! I honestly don't know what men are thinking. Your shelf-life has EXPIRED! I can't tell you how many times men contact me 6 months and even 9 months after we stop talking. It blows my mind. Women don't do this. Do we?

Check it:

 So there you have it. Haven't heard from him since but I guess I shouldn't be surprised if I get another drunk text in the future. Next time I won't respond since my curiosity has been satisfied. So long, big in the pants! 

Big In The Pants

I meet Dan on Match.com. We exchange a few emails and he quickly asks me to meet him for an adult beverage. I like his style - not messing around. We meet at Ragtime (a cool "dive" bar - as casual as you will find in Arlington) and thankfully he looks exactly like his pictures. The conversation is easy. Dan is HYSTERICAL. I can't remember the last time I've been on a date with a guy this funny. He has the sort of self-deprecating humor that cracks my shit up. After two dazzling hours of witty repartee I decide I want to see Dan again.

Second Date Dan (as I've come to refer to him) calls me and asks me to go bowling in Annandale. It turns out I'm a pathetic bowler. Thankfully he is also appallingly terrible. But the kisses we steal in between turns make me soon forget about the score. After two rounds of admittedly sad bowling we call it quits and head to the only open bar in Annandale.

The bartender comes and personally introduces himself to us and memorizes our names. Um. Okay. After learning it's our first time to frequent this fine establishment he offers us free shots. What. Is. Happening. Where are we? Dan and I are both equally cynical and think there MUST be something nefarious going on here. People just aren't nice like that. No way, Jose.

When we tire of speculating what underhanded business the bar is a cover for, we head to his car. Second Date Dan (soon to be Third Date Dan in my opinion) has an interesting combination. He's sexy while at the same time being goofy. Not many guys can pull it off. We're kissing when he pulls away and puts my hand on his thigh.   

I laugh so hard my face hurts. He recovers nicely and has the grace to laugh it off. I'm not sure what he expected me to do/say. Swoon? Ask to see it? "I'm big in the pants" becomes a catch phrase with me and my girlfriends. "I don't know if you know this but...  I'M BIG IN THE PANTS." It becomes even funnier when you throw on an Elvis accent. Try it. Go on.

Second Date Dan still becomes Third Date Dan after this incident because hey, the guy makes me laugh. So what if his pick up lines are truly awful.

After our fourth date - and me still NOT verifying the validity of his big penis claim - I never hear from Dan again. I get the feeling he is used to women jumping into bed with him. And when he realized it wouldn't be happening any time soon, he decided to take his big pants and move on. No hard feelings on my end - it's better to learn sooner rather than later when a guy is only interested in showing you what's in his pantalones.

Highway to My Heart

Do I need to explain this? Okay, fine. I am about to fall asleep when a pick-up truck pulls up beside me. It’s a cute guy. All of the sudden I’m not tired anymore! There is some car flirting – he passes me and then I pass him.  Like something 16 year old Jamie would’ve done in high school.  He holds up his phone motioning for me to give him my number. I give my phone number (holding up one finger at a time) to this man on the freeway going 75 mph. He calls me and we talk for 45 minutes. Doesn’t everyone do this?

His name is John. He drives a manly truck. He’s very attractive (from the chest up) and is 27 years old. It’s amazing the things you’ll divulge to a complete stranger you’ve just met. He tells me his life story – he went to jail for a few years after stealing beer at the age of 17. He realized he’d never be able to get a white collar job even after 4 years of college so he started his own business. Now he volunteers at juvenile centers and talks to the youth there. I’m impressed by him. In general I’m impressed by people who have made mistakes and have learned from them. He has a maturity that isn’t common in a 27 year old man.

He tells me he’s going to pull over to stop for gas and that I should stop with him. What the hell? Why not – it’s day light… what could go wrong? I pull up behind him and he gets out.  Still cute (from the chest down). Whew. He thanks me for making his drive more interesting.  Then he asks if I’d like to meet his daughter. Um. WHAT? On the outside I’m cool as a cucumber but on the inside I’m wondering who I am right now. 

His 2 year old daughter is asleep in the back of his truck. She’s adorable and strangely enough it’s endearing. Especially after hearing that he fought for shared custody of her and drives 14 hours just to pick her up.  AND he goes to church every week! ::swoon::

We say our goodbyes and I continue on to Ohio for a gathering of my college friends. I recount the story to them and they’re not pleased.  I suppose it sounds bad… meeting convicted felons at gas stations.  My friend’s lawyer husband immediately says “no way he went to jail for 2 years just for stealing some beer.” So cynical!

In comparison to some of the wealthy, entitled men I’ve met recently, John is refreshing. He has been humbled by his experiences. He lives four states away but I would definitely go out with him should he ever be passing through. In the meantime, I will make sure I look at least somewhat cute in the car – never would’ve happened had I been wearing sweatpants with my hair in a ponytail!

An Email I Never Wanted to Receive. One Year Later.

"Jamie,

I know this email may come to you as a big surprise, and you're probably wondering who I am. I plan to give you all the details, but before I do I just want you to know that my main reason for writing this email is to provide you with a piece of information that was never given to you when your relationship with Joseph ended. Perhaps you were aware of it already, but something tells me you weren't. I know I may be very late with this information considering it's been almost a year, and I know many people will think writing to you is a very stupid idea... but the truth is you deserve to know no matter how late it may be….”  OH JESUS.

I could copy and paste the entire email but really what’s the point? Let me summarize. It’s much easier this way. Joseph meets Julia in San Diego while I’m in Italy with my parents. They start texting. She confronts him on it because late night texts from engaged men are suspect. He comes out with it: he has a crush on her. He comes back to DC – as an alien with different eyes – and tells me he needs to go find himself.

It doesn’t end there. She continues to chronicle her romance with Joseph. (WHY??) Their friendship blossoms into a romantic relationship. They date for 5 months. He breaks it off and she feels hurt. She feels that he’s getting away with looking like a nice guy and thus feels the need to lash out against him. Strangely enough, I understand where she’s coming from.

To this day I don’t know if Joseph’s friends know the truth about why we broke up. They definitely don’t know THIS truth – that he had developed feelings for another woman. Sadly his obsession with always being seen as the “good guy” probably led him down the path of unhappiness in the first place.

Part of me is angry. Angry that for an entire year I’ve felt sorry for him for being so lost. But now it’s clear he has no integrity. He lied to my face when confronted about whether or not he had feelings for someone else. He didn’t have the balls to just be honest with me. LAME.  The other part of me is breathing a huge sigh of relief. Bullet dodged.

Just as I would’ve been justified in throwing his clothes on the lawn or tearing apart his life-size poster of himself, there are many nasty things I could’ve said/done upon receiving this email. But I took the high road. Bat-shit crazy ain’t my style, folks. I forwarded him the email and just said “Breaking things off with me was the best gift you could’ve ever given me.” I even responded to her. She felt guilty and I assured her it wasn’t her fault. I told her that this only further validates how grateful I am NOT to be with him.

I know this woman isn't the reason my relationship with Joseph ended. But she certainly seems to have been the catalyst. So in that regard I must thank you, Julie, for your unfortunate role in my disengagement. And subsequent manpage. Which has been anything but unfortunate. :)

How Does This Keep Happening?

It's Friday night which can mean only one thing: hockey. I head to the bar after our game and am having a few beers with my teammates. One of my teammate's friends is a cute guy from Colombia and we hit it off. He asks for my number and I figure "why not?" I even agree to give him a ride to the metro - what can I say? I'm a very generous person. Colombian man saunters off to talk to some other people and I'm left at a table with the opposing team.

O'Brien tells us he needs to go compliment a random dude on his hair. We all exchange glances like “whaaaa?” but it’s probably just that O’Brien has hair-envy. He’s bald. A minute later he’s back with the man and says to everyone “doesn’t he have incredible hair?” I’m caught off-guard because that is NOT the only incredible thing this man has. Holy shit. He’s gorgeous. Not only does he have rockstar hair but he has intense blue/green eyes, an eyebrow piercing, long eyelashes and nice lips. THEN he opens his mouth. He has an AUSTRALIAN accent. Be still my heart. Somehow it comes out that he’s there meeting the bartender who also plays guitar. Stop. It. He plays guitar! It’s over.

Colombian man is looking at me from across the room and is trying to get my attention. He’s ready to leave. Crap. I say to Craig, Mr. Aussie, that I’d love to see him again but don’t know how to give him my number without being awkward. He pulls out his phone and instructs me to keep talking while he holds his phone under the table. Nice. Whew. I give him a knowing smile and walk out of the bar.

You may remember Colombian man from this previous post: http://flingstress.blogspot.com/2012/03/are-you-kidding-me.html He's the key snatcher. Anyway. Back to Craig.

He calls me that night and leaves a delicious voicemail in his delicious aussie accent. We make plans to jam at my apartment a few nights later. He lives kind of far away in Fredericksburg but says he doesn't mind driving to see me.

He shows up at my door…

I racked my memory for any piece of conversation where he might have mentioned his wife to me. Fair enough there were moments where time stood still and I just got lost in those ridiculous eyes... but c'mon. I would've remembered that! Worse yet – his wife was AT the bar the night we met! That's why he was more than happy to hold his phone under the freakin' table. What are men thinking?!

Final thought: he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. My friend’s fiancé (also an aussie named Craig coincidentally) recently told her that he doesn’t want to wear a ring. He says there are loads of guys who don’t. I agree. They’re called cheaters.

From Ireland With Love Part II

Kat, Jackie and I are making our way on bicycles through the western coast of Ireland and it’s honestly some of the most stunning scenery I’ve ever seen. Forrest Gump famously said “I couldn’t tell where the earth stopped and heaven began.” He obviously has been to Ireland.

On our fourth day of the ride we are headed from Clifden to Leenane. Don’t feel badly – you shouldn’t know where these places are. We see signs for a Mussel Festival and all three of us unanimously declare, “Yes, please!” We follow signs and eventually stop off in the small town of Letterfrack to get directions. A few kilometers later we are rewarded with the picturesque town of Tully Cross, tons of mussels and a few pints of mid-day Guinnesses.

Kat and I are sitting outside when a good-looking ginger exits the bar. Umm…. hello! Kat, who might even be more outgoing than I am (if that’s even possible) asks if I want her to go get him. I respond “Nah, I’m wearing bike clothes… not feeling too sexy.” Ginger man returns 5 minutes later carrying a guitar into the bar.  Kat and I exchange glances. GAME ON! We move through the pub to the beer garden where he’s setting up his equipment. I plant myself right in front of him.

I request “Leaving on a Jet Plane” by John Denver and he doesn’t know the words. He says he’ll play it if I come up and sing it. Little does he know that I’m *completely* shameless. I jump right up and belt it out. Jackie is busy snapping pictures (ah one of the many joys of travelling with professional photographers: they capture moments of you singing with ginger Justin Timberlake look-a-likes).

As we’re leaving the pub I hand him my email address and say “so my friend is a photographer and she got some great shots of us… so email me if you want them.” Totally casual. Ginger man turns bright red with one of the most endearing blushes I’ve ever seen.  I leave knowing there isn’t a chance I’ll hear from him given his shy reaction to my forwardness. Ah well. Can’t win ‘em all.

Three days later I say farewell to Jackie and Kat and take a 3 hour bus to Galway – a city in the middle of the Western coast known for its nightlife and music scene. I’m with a new friend from Portugal, Maria, at a traditional Irish pub called The Crane. We are talking about life, love and everything in between when guess who walks in the

Mother…

Fucking…

Door…

From Ireland with Love Part I

A friend recently asked me why I hadn’t updated my blog. He asked me if I had been “tamed.” HA! I scoffed. Not to fear, friends! I am still single and manpaging it up.

One reason for the delay? I took a month-long trip to Ireland. By myself. After my break up I had a strange desire to go to Ireland. I can’t tell you why. Wait, that’s a lie. What’s better to heal the heart than gorgeous, strapping men with delicious accents? I thought to myself “It’ll be like P.S. I Love You without all the death.”

I didn’t have it planned really… I knew vaguely some of the places I wanted to visit but I purposely left it open-ended so I could have the freedom to roam. My first week there was spent on a bike. As in, I rented a bicycle from a company and they gave me some maps and basically said “good luck!” There were two other crazy people doing the same thing as me but I had no idea who they were. What if they didn’t want to hang with me? What if they were old and boring? Worse still, what if they were newlyweds and would send daggers through my heart with their nuptial bliss?

Sometimes the universe helps you out. Kat and Jackie are two of the most interesting, incredible, compassionate and fun people I’ve ever met. They’ve been married for 14 years and yes, they’re lesbians. Although to be fair, with bike clothes on – and me wearing a bandana most of the time – it was tough to tell which one was not like the others.

It’s exactly what I needed… to be around a couple who are truly meant to be together. I felt overwhelmed with gratitude to NOT have married the wrong person. Kat told me I needed to find my “Jackie” – someone that complements your areas of strengths and weaknesses. Unless she was insinuating I start dating women. Hmmm... I’m not *quite* there yet.  

Okay, all of this soul-searching is nice and all. But what about the Irish men?! Ha. You just want the dirty details. I get it. Here we go:

Number of make outs: 7

Number of times I was proposed to: 4

Number of pints of Guinness consumed: 104

Number of nights singing and playing guitar: 16

Number of pictures of puffins: HUNDREDS


Number of hearts broken: too many to count


Number of hearts healed: 1

The Flingstress’s Guide to Kissing. What NOT To Do.

Kissing can be one of the most enjoyable activities on earth. Unless you commit some of the following egregious errors. Educate yo’self!

Ladies, we’ve all been victims of this. He leans in, you close your eyes and BAM! He dives in tongue first! It’s normally an extremely stiff tongue too. Gross! Guys, I’ll make it easy for you to understand – lips should ALWAYS make contact before tongue. Always. There are no exceptions to this golden rule. ESPECIALLY on a first kiss! Are you kidding me? Bottom line: Lips before tongue.

Yes, you look sexy with a five o’clock shadow. We all agree. What I don’t appreciate is having my chin rubbed raw from your stubble. Kissing should NOT be painful. I should want to kiss your for hours – not wonder when this sandpaper torture will be over. If, after we’re done kissing, I look like I’ve skidded across pavement with my face, chances are I won’t be kissing you again. Bottom line: Shave or have a beard that won’t leave me with road rash.

Do the words “slow burn” mean anything to you? They should because this is how most women operate. Passionate kissing is awesome – but you know what is more awesome? The anticipation of said kissing. Make the woman want to kiss you more instead of making her think about how to pump the brakes. Bottom line: No one wants to make out with a puppy dog.

Maybe the grossest offense although it’s a toss up with Torpedo Tongue. This is when a man sticks his tongue in your mouth and leaves it there. Like it’s just in there. Not moving. Not exploring. Just hanging out. Bottom line: If you are putting your tongue in my mouth, you’d better have a plan for it.

Oh yeah. This one is super hot. You’re out with a great guy and at the end of the night he goes in for a goodnight kiss. Except his lips are hard and tight. And it reminds you of when your grandma would kiss you. There is no tongue and barely any movement. Huge libido killer. Bottom line: Soft lips, fellas. If I want a tight-lipped peck I'll call your grandmother.

I don’t think this one needs much explanation. Ever seen the movie A Perfect Storm? That's what it's like kissing you. Fluids flying every which way... the feeling that I might drown at any moment. Bottom line: I shouldn’t need to wipe my face with the back of my sleeve when we’re done kissing.

Now you know what NOT to do. Stay tuned for my guide on how to become a phenomenal kisser.

Ever Been Stood Up? Because I Have.

I began dating at 15 years old when I begged my dad to let me go on my first car date with Nathan Wheeler. I have NEVER been stood up in the 14 years since then. Until Friday. For those of you lucky enough to have never experienced this, I liken it to being pooped on by a bird. You feel something on your shoulder (or even your face) and you say to yourself "no, it can't be, that's not what just happened." Then the horror and disgust of the realization hits you. You've been shat upon.

If it hadn't have been for the two gay men who bought me my glass of wine at the bar or my friend Maria who met me for dinner later that evening, I might have been reduced to beer tears. It scares me on many levels - this was the second date with him and my psycho hosebeast radar had not gone off. Am I really that bad at judging someone's character? Yikes. Maybe the next time a man tells me his nickname is "Danger" I won't go on a second date with him. Yep, let's start there.

I Wouldn't Call It a Fetish. Yet.

We all have preferences in the opposite sex. Some women like muscley jock-types, others like men who are tall, dark and handsome and still other women like men in uniform. Pretty typical, eh? Not me. I like accordion players. You heard me right. I dig men who play the accordion. There is something so sexy about men who are a. musicians and b. play an instrument otherwise known as a “squeezebox.” It’s not a fetish, per se… just a preference. Ha.

I am at the 9:30 club with April and a few friends to see Ozomatli. The opening band is on-stage and they are actually pretty decent. They are an Afrobeat band playing big-band funk music. The instrumentation is impressive – they’ve got trumpets, trombones, saxophones and a sweet percussion section. Then all of the sudden the keyboard player pulls out an accordion. ::Swoon:: I get an idea. I ask the girls if anyone has a pen.

I don’t know what came over me – it’s a stunt I might have pulled as a 16 year old (well, let’s be honest, I DID pull a similar stunt when I was 16 and left a note for a musician at Busch Gardens on his music stand). I guess I have a long history of this type of behavior.

After accordion man reads the piece of paper, all of my friends point at me so he knows who wrote him the note. I keep trying to catch his eye but he is in the zone. This might mean that either he isn’t interested or perhaps has a girlfriend. Ah well – still fun to pass a note to a musician while they’re on stage. I’m such a groupie! As soon as he gets off stage he texts me and says “Hello Jamie, I would very much like to take you up on that adult beverage.” Success! It worked!!! I can hardly believe it. My friends are in shock. They can’t comprehend what they’ve witnessed.

Ryan, a.k.a. accordion man, and I grab a drink after the show. He’s a full-time musician and a pretty cool guy. He tells me I made his night (and possibly month) with my note and that it would be gracing his refrigerator when he got home. Says it’s usually the guitar players that get hit on – not the keys player. Ryan is impressed with my gumption. So are my girlfriends. But I have to remind people that it’s not bravery so much as it’s shamelessness.

I am shameless. And rockin’ it. Thanks to my shamelessness, I might have found an accordion-playing beau.

Leaving On A Jet Plane... With My Future Husband?

Airplanes. It’s where the action goes down. I am NOT kidding, folks. I am at the airport on my way to visit my sister in Oregon. I’m flying Southwest, which is indisputably the BEST airline for meeting cute guys. Why? Because you get to pick your seat! That’s right – you scout out the cute guys while you’re in line and then you sit next to them when you board the plane. Freakin’ genius! Oh, and in case you were wondering or had any doubt: yes, I look quite pretty.

I have two legs of the flight – DC to Chicago and then Chicago to Portland. There is a handsome guy who keeps checking me out but he boards long before I do. Let’s call him man number 1. The man in line behind me strikes up a conversation and come to find out he’s from OHIO (like me) and he’s in town interviewing to be a resident at Georgetown hospital. A doctor? Yes, please! We sit near the back of the plane across the aisle from one another and talk the entire flight to Chicago. Man number 1 is actually only a few rows in front of me and I catch him looking back at us – sadly – a few times.

Doctor man gets my business card and he exits the plane in Chicago along with 95% of the passengers. Guess who’s left and also continuing on to Portland? That’s right – handsome man number 1! He finagles it so that we both move up to the front of the plane and sits next to me. He seems unfazed by the fact I just hit it off with doctor man on the previous flight.

His name is Adam. He’s flying to Portland to be with his brother and his dad so that they can put the family dog down. It’s so sweet and endearing that it strikes a sympathetic chord with me. I am unabashedly a dog-lover. ::swoon:: Adam buys me a drink (I told you – airplanes are the NEW bars!) and the flight attendants look at us knowingly. Yep, they’ve seen this before. We literally talk for 5 hours straight. The conversation is easy... not forced at all.

Before we even get off the plane he has already asked for my information and even suggests that we meet up in Portland. Once we land, we are making our way to baggage claim when an older gentleman approaches us.

I don’t think I’ve ever blushed so much in my entire life. Adam is thoroughly amused and after the man tells him we should get to know each other better he replies “yeah, that’s the plan” with a smirk on his face. I even tell the guy about our age difference (I’m 29, Adam is 25) and he has an answer for everything. “That’s perfect, men die sooner anyway.” Well, alright then. There you have it. Maybe I will be sending this crazy man a wedding invite someday. You never know - crazier shit has happened.

Are You *$&#$&% Kidding Me?

I would like to momentarily interrupt our normal programming to bring you a segment called, “Are you ::insert expletive:: kidding me?”

I go on a date with this guy for drinks in Chinatown at Cuba Libre. We have a decent time and he even sneaks a kiss in at the bar. At this point I’m thinking I’d go out with him again. He had walked to the bar and asks for a ride home. I should know better. When we get to his apartment, he asks me to come inside and hey, I can’t blame a guy for trying. But when I say “no, thanks” it should stop there. It doesn’t. He asks four or five more times. I grow more and more uncomfortable and am tired of being nice about it. Finally, after what seemed like a half hour of begging, he gets out of my car. He asks me out again (via text, of course. Ugh.) to which I respond that I’m not interested. He pushes for a reason so I tell him the truth: I should only have to say “no” once. He doesn’t take it well and accuses me of being too sexy and for kissing him at the bar. ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?

I decide to try online dating. Eek. I meet a nice Vietnamese guy named Van on Okcupid and we agree to meet for drinks at Front Page. He’s very cute… except for the fact he looks exactly like Joseph’s younger brother. I can get over that, right? Van is super sweet and I get the feeling he’s very much feeling the vibe I’m laying down. Still, I didn’t expect what happens next. He pulls out his phone and says “I’m just going to delete my Okcupid account right now.” I respond “no, no, don’t be silly – don’t do that!” to which he says “I don’t need it anymore... I’ve found you.” ARE YOU EFFFFFING KIDDING ME?

After hockey one Friday night I meet some friends for a drink downtown. A mutual friend of theirs was handsome, latino and funny. Trifecta! He asks for a ride home since I have wheels and he took metro. Wait. How does this keep happening? When will I learn? We get to his place and he kisses me. Okay, fine. THEN he yanks the keys out of my ignition and takes off running toward his apartment. He gleefully shouts “now you have to come inside!” I sit dumb-founded in my car and you bet your ass I’m refusing to move. ARE YOU *$&#$&% KIDDING ME?!

Sinners. You Are All Sinners!

This story takes place on Halloween. I know you’re thinking “What the hell, Jamie –it’s freaking March! Get caught up, already!” What can I tell you? There just have been SO many men between my break up and now that I’m running a severe back log. Consider yourself “disclaimered.”

Most women use Halloween as an opportunity to dress slutty. I dress ::ahem:: sexy most of the time so I like to use Halloween as an opportunity to dress as a man. Some of my past costumes have included Wayne from Wayne’s World and Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords. I looked so much like Wayne, a girl even tried to kiss me. She was aptly dressed as Babe-raham Lincoln. Schwing!

In light of my newly found singledom my roommate Bethany convinces me NOT to go as a dude this year. I oblige her and oh do I *really* oblige her. Think Sister Act meets Jersey Shore. I wore a nun’s habit with fishnet hose, a black mini skirt, and a black bra with a “shirt” that went all the way down to my belly button. I can’t even begin to tell you how deliciously naughty it felt. I spent most of the night running around yelling “sinners, you’re all sinners” to other partygoers. Many men approached me confessing to have gone to Catholic school and that this was fulfilling some boyhood fantasies. Bethany, who looked like a hot Amelia Earhart, and I did very well for ourselves that night.

I had my business card on me which is mega dangerous. I was handing that thing out like candy. In fact, I gave my number to 5 men that night – and 4 of them actually called me. I’d say that’s a pretty good ROI.

Bethany and I are a little tipsy at the end of the night and we walk to Hard Times Café in Clarendon for some late night “sober up” chili nachos. While standing in line we meet three men – one is incredibly handsome, one has scary, bloody makeup on and the third one is brown and cute. Somehow they finagle it so we’re seated at the same table together. Incredibly good-looking man’s name is Joseph. Um no. Sorry, that’s not going to work for me. I inform him I’ll be calling him Joe. When I tell him why – that my ex-fiance’s name is Joseph – he looks at me and says he’s also recently dis-engaged. What the hell? I had no idea how common it was to suffer failed engagements until it happened to me. Although to be fair, Joe was one week away from the altar when they called things off. So he’s WAY more messed up about it. Train wreck is probably an appropriate classification here.

They invite us back to Scary Makeup Man's apartment in Courthouse for more drinks. I shoot a glance at Bethany like “are we up for this kind of night tonight?” and her one-eyebrow raise replied “why the hell not?” These guys are on the older side (36-40) so the apartment is really nice. Joe invites me out onto the balcony even though it’s freezing outside and I know where this is going. He has one of the nicest bodies I’ve ever felt. And oh do I enjoy exploring it. His legs are like rocks, his stomach is ripped, his shoulders are bulging… His strapping frame makes me feel petite and feminine. Fuck yes.

The making out is getting fairly intense and it feels wonderful to be desired… and also to torture him. I have already made it clear to him that I’m not interested in a one night stand. Regardless, it doesn’t stop him from telling me all of the unbelievably naughty things he would do to me and it makes me blush in the best way possible.

Who says that? Seriously?! I wish I were making this up. But I couldn’t make it up if I tried. This is 100% true. He told me he was going to choke me. So naughty! Fyi, if you’re trying to sleep with me, this isn’t the way to entice me.

Joe and I went on one date after that night. It became apparent to both of us that 1. He wasn’t ready for anything given his recent break up and 2. I wasn't up for just a casual sex arrangement. Oh, and then there was 3. I didn’t want to be choked. Ahhhh, those minor details.

Worst Date In The History Of the World

Any date that ends with you writing an affidavit can technically be considered the worst date in the world. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay?

Garrett is 23. I met him at a bar. Where he works as a bartender. Soooo stereotypical. What can I say? The kid cracks me up. He genuinely makes me laugh and I don’t find that every day. So what the hell? I decide to go out with him.

After his shift at the bar, we head to Freddies in Crystal City. We walk in and are immediately engulfed by a sleazy vibe. Maybe it’s the stripper who approaches us and makes it very clear she’s interested in both of us… or the supposedly gay Asian man who tries to feel me up… or maybe it’s just the sleaziness exuding from Garrett. I can’t be certain.

I’m laid back enough to tolerate this environment – I’m holding my own talking with a group of strippers and Mr. “touchy-feely” Asian man. I look at Garrett and am thinking he’s quite good looking for a baby. I’m busy fending Asian man off when I see Garrett talking to a woman as he pulls out his phone and gets her number. What. The. Fuck.

I wish that were the worst of it. It gets worse. “How?!” you ask. Well, let me tell you. Garrett is laying it on strong and is trying to convince me to come home with him. I’m like “hell to the NO!” He’s completely unfazed and whips out his phone to make a call. “Hey bro, what’s up dude?” Wait. Is that a girl he’s talking to?! He continues with “yeah man, where you at?” Shut up! You’re pretending you’re talking to a guy when I can totally hear that it’s a girl? Seriously?!! You can’t wait until I drop you off to arrange your booty call?

I wish I could say that 1. Asking for another girl’s number in front of me and 2. Arranging a booty call with another woman while pretending it was a man were the only things that qualified this as the worst date ever. Wrong.

The next day I get a call from a friend who knows the owners of the bar where Garrett works. “Hey, just a head’s up: you might be getting a call from the police.” WHAT? Apparently he had been accused of credit card fraud and the police wanted an affidavit from me stating where we had gone and what he spent money on. So let me get this straight. Not only did you take me on the worst date of my life but you didn’t even use your own money to finance it?! I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!

To be fair, even though Garrett acted like a major douchebag, I don’t think he is a thief. What can I say? I see the best in people. Not that I would EVER consider going out with him again. I need to reevaluate my “lower limit.” Might need to raise it to at least 28. Hell, let’s just raise that puppy up to 30, the age when men actually become acceptable to date.

Speed Dating Disaster

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be trapped with tons of socially awkward, geeky guys who you would never in a million years give the time of day to? Well, wonder no more! Just sign up for speed dating!

April had a groupon for this speed dating event – a two for one special… lucky me! We arrive early at McFaddens and grab a drink by the bar. GW is also hosting a happy hour and there are plenty of men to mingle with. Wait. So why are we doing this again? April and I have no trouble meeting guys but we are both willing to give speed dating a chance. Especially since we don’t seem to be meeting the right kind of guys.

The bell rings. It’s time for speed dating, folks! Girls are seated at tables and the guys move from one girl to the next. Only there aren't enough guys – so every other round you are sitting alone. Hmph. Typical. You get 5 minutes with each guy and let me tell you: five minutes can be a very, very , very looooooong time depending on who’s sitting in front of you.

There are many “blah” guys who don’t even register in my memory. A few stick out, though. The guy who talks a lot about video games. The guy who can’t think of anything to say and starts recycling questions. The tall Indian man with piercing blue eyes. The guy who purposefully moves his chair to sit closer to each woman and makes every woman feel uncomfortable about having her personal space invaded.

We were encouraged to write down notes about each guy and to put a star next to the ones we want to see again. I look down at my painfully star-less sheet of paper. Zero stars. None. Not a one. Just when I had lost all hope I hear…

What are the odds? I know Jason from hockey when we both used to play for a league in Fairfax about five years ago. I remember thinking he was cute – even when I was dating his teammate. The five minutes with Jason felt more like 30 seconds and I knew I would be putting a star by his name.

There’s this whole convoluted email system that the speed dating organization sets up so you can see people’s pictures, find out who’s interested in you, send messages and likely cringe at the memories. Jason and I both “choose” the other and are alerted via email that we like each another. Score. Age of technology = win.

Jason comes to my house to pick me up. That’s right, ladies. He actually parks his car, walks to my front door, meets my dad (j/k) and picks me up. He doesn't say “let’s meet at such and such bar at 9 pm” or text me “I’m here” when he’s in my parking lot so I can scamper out. Seems like a small thing – but in an era when men are no longer men, he gets major bonus points.

I feel very comfortable with him. We quickly find out that we both have survived failed engagements (his reaction is actually to "high five" me when I tell him about my break up). He looks relieved that I can understand what he went through. I feel the same way. I decide after beer 2 that I like him.

Unfortunately we decide to have one more beer and that appears to be my tipping point. After beer 3, all I want to do is make out with him. We are being kicked out of the restaurant and are both heading to the restroom. I give him an opening and we share a kiss outside the bathroom. Romantic, eh? We leave with our arms around each other and pause to make out by the stairs leading down to the parking garage.

Once in my apartment’s parking lot, the seatbelts fly off and more making out ensues. I climb over to his bucket seat – shameless move, I know – and things are getting hot and heavy. When he undoes the clasp on my bra I’m instantly snapped back into reality. Pump. Those. Brakes. He walks me to my door like a nice man and doesn’t even ask to come inside. I’m relieved -there's nothing less attractive than a man pushing for sex.

Once inside I curse myself for letting things go that far. I mean – dude didn’t even get to second base BUT I should've just been content with a kiss goodnight. In any case, it is hands down the best date I've been on since Joseph. So to my ultimate chagrin, I owe a huge ol’ THANK YOU to speed dating. Not that I will ever do it again. I'm not that crazy.

So Not a Date Movie

Amir and I have been friends for a while – going on 6 years, in fact. I met him playing in a coed soccer league when I first moved to DC. I always found him attractive. Stocky, black, great smile and terrific soccer player. Yum. He was dating someone at the time, though. And then when he tried to holler, I had already started dating Joseph. We kept in touch and still saw each other occasionally. He definitely pounced when he found out my relationship had ended. Thank you, facebook.

He used my birthday as an excuse to take me out to a fabulous Italian restaurant downtown. I looked hot. I felt sexy as hell and his approving look and subsequent compliments let me know my efforts were appreciated. Dinner was lovely – sparkling wine… sparkling conversation... sparkling company. He made me feel like a million bucks.

So what is my problem then? Why oh why did I get super squirrelly when he went for the kiss goodnight? It’s never happened to me before! This squirmy business. I mean, kissing is my jam – it’s what I’m good at. But when Amir leaned in, I froze. And I wasn't quick enough to give him my cheek so he got a half-mouth kiss. Groan. It was terrible. I was so awkward and embarrassed. We fumbled around and mumbled our goodbyes. Ughhhhhh.

I’m hoping to redeem myself when he calls and asks me to a movie the following week. What movie does he want to see? 50/50- the new Seth Rogen comedy. Within 20 minutes of the movie’s start, we find out the protagonist has spinal cancer. He’s 27. What. The. Fuck. I did NOT sign up for a cancer movie, people. I feel the tears coming. No. No. Please no. There are many scenes between this man and his mother and it hits a little too close to home. When I was home for my birthday I told my mom I never would’ve been able to go through my break up without her. My mom is a breast cancer survivor and the thought of losing her is unfathomable. Oh Jesus. And the waterworks begin.

Amir looks over at me a few times and I try to hide the fact I’m crying albeit not very successfully. He is surprised to say the least. The torturous movie is finally over but the tears won’t stop. Damn it. We are sitting alone in the semi-dark movie theater. Amir is staring at me with what looks like concern mixed with extreme fear. There is nothing a man hates more than a crying woman. NOTHING. The worst part is I can’t even explain why I’m so affected or emotional. The sobs rack my entire body and it’s the kind of crying that makes talking impossible. I’m horrified.

We haven’t gone out again. Weirdly enough it’s not because he didn't want to. He made it clear to me he was interested and willing to give me the time I needed. The truth is this: how do you recover from that? It’s too fast, too intense and too intimate. He saw something that very few people (especially men) ever get to see. As a warning to all of my fellow ladies, I’ve written a little poem.

Awkward half-mouth kisses
Are not the things he misses
Worse - tears on a date
And you’ve sealed your own fate

Who Wants a Mustache Ride?

I have incredible friends. End of story. No, just kidding. That would be a weak story. When Joseph and I broke up, friends supported me in different ways. Some friends lent their ears, others lent their Saturday evenings for booty shaking, one lent his frequent flier miles to visit my sister and still other friends let me borrow their condo in Cancun. Yes, you heard me correctly. Nothing heals the heart like a vacation to Cancun.

The condo is GORGEOUS. It’s very modern and tastefully decorated – the view is overlooking a vast jungle and April and I have breakfast on the balcony every morning. My friend, Sylvia, had mentioned that there wouldn’t be too many people at the resort because it was off season. She also mentioned that there would be a Canadian guy who docks his boat at the resort’s marina. That’s a start.

April and I are walking with Ernesto, the property manager, and we hear loud music coming from one of the boats down at the marina. He smiles and says “that must be Matt.” The 80s hair metal music leads us to a completely bald, porn-mustachioed -albeit attractive - guy wearing cut off jeans and a wife beater. He has an infectious smile that somehow manages to escape under the heavy ‘stache. Within minutes he’s invited us to join him and his buddy on the boat that evening. He’s even hired a crew to man the boat since he doesn’t believe in drinking and “driving.” Promising.

I know it’s going to be quite a night when April and I finish off a bottle of wine AND champagne before we even join them. I have it on good authority that Chris, mustache-man’s friend, is a talented musician so I snag my guitar on the way out the door. A crew of about four Mexican guys greet us and usher us onto the boat. Matt is whipping up margaritas and Chris lights up when he sees the guitar.

We are sitting on the top deck of the boat playing guitar, singing and drinking. April and Matt go down to get more to drink and leave me with Chris. I finish playing and singing him a song and hand him the guitar to serenade me. I didn’t originally find him attractive but after 2 glasses of champagne, 3 glasses of wine and 2 margaritas (combined with his musical talent and singing ability – I’m a sucker for musicians) I am feeling him BIG time.

I’m not proud of what happens next. Well, not that I remember much of it. We pull right up to the club, get off the boat and enter through a secret back door. VIP, y’all! There is dance music playing and I run off with April to dance on stage. I look away for literally a split second and when I turn around, April is being hoisted up by her feet into a strange dizzying contraption designed to make girls feel even more drunk than they already are. She gets spun around and somehow manages to not barf when they finally let her down. Many margaritas later and I move from "browned out" to officially blacked out. I don’t remember kissing a random Brazilian man or being told it was time to go.

Chris is nowhere to be found as we make our way back to the boat - I vaguely remember feeling bad about ignoring him once we got there. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol (most likely, let’s be honest) or the swaying of the boat but I realize immediately that I’m going to be sick. Thank goodness I have the sense to hang my head over the side of the boat. April is rubbing my back trying to soothe me while she talks to Matt. I feel awful because I’m probably cockblocking right now and ruining their romantic moment. Nothing like the sounds of horking to put you in the mood.

The next morning I’m greeted by dehydration and a pounding headache. Oh, and guilt. Yep, and embarrassment. I’m 29 freakin’ years old and not only did I act like a complete fool but I ended the night with my head hanging off a boat throwing up. April assures me that everyone is entitled to this time, especially after a traumatic break up. Amen, sister. I do believe that’s the formula, folks. Margaritas + Cancun + mustachioed boat captain + blacked out make out sessions = pathway to healing.

I Haven't Been There for the Longest Time

Airplanes. They are the new bars. Think about it – it’s the perfect scenario… you’re trapped for hours in a confined space with strangers. Sound like a claustrophobic nightmare? Not for me! I’m at the airport waiting for my flight to Colorado for my best friend’s 30^th birthday extravaganza. I’m pleasantly surprised by how many good looking, strapping men are in the waiting area for the Denver flight. Feeling pleased that I had actually put on a little makeup and done my hair, I mosey over to a particularly handsome fella and plop myself down next to him.

He’s eating a sub and I ask him mid-bite if this is the flight to Denver. He nods yes and that’s all it takes, folks. We are chatting the rest of the time and the poor guy never even gets to finish his sub. He’s definitely a military guy – shaved head, muscles and polite as can be. We board the plane and funny how the universe helps you out once in a while. My seat is literally one row in front of his. No one sits next to him and he motions for me to join him. I ask the flight attendant if it’s okay to switch seats and she gives me a knowing smirk.

Kevin and I talk the entire time on the 3.5 hour flight to Denver. Life, love and everything in between. He’s got brains AND brawn AND looks like a cross between Viggo Mortensen and Robert Sean Leonard. It’s okay, go ahead - look those two people up on the interwebs to see what I’m talking about. Hot.

I meet up with Lola, her sister and 3 friends at the hotel and tell them about the handsome man I met. We are leaving Denver in the morning, though, and he lives in Colorado Springs anyway. Bummer. Oh well, c’est la vie! We head to Glenwood Springs and spend the next few days exploring the wild west – hiking, eating, drinking and a little dancing. Colorado is one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited. Epic scenery.

On our last night we head back to Denver and have plans to go to a karaoke bar after a sushi feast. Kevin and I have been texting back and forth and he and his friend Brody are driving up from Colorado Springs to hang out with us. I’m both excited and nervous to see him again.

I may have failed to mention that Lola and all of her friends are professional singers. Like for real. I am a mediocre singer at best but I can hold my own at karaoke. Kevin and Brody are not enthused about singing and I give both of them a hard time because hey, it’s a karaoke bar. Man up!

Tee hee. He makes me get up and sing with him which I acknowledge is only fair. It is nauseatingly cute especially when he puts his arm around me while we are singing lyrics like “I took my chances, I forgot how nice romance is… I haven’t been there for the longest time.” Swoon.

Lola brings the house down with her rendition of Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” and we are among the last patrons to leave the bar at 2 am. What happens next is surreal and it feels like we’re in high school again. We don’t have anywhere to go but we don’t want to go home. So we stand outside and just laugh for hours and hours. Pretty sure we covered all of the bases and have made fun of every race, religion, political affiliation and stereotypes imaginable. Including leprechauns. We are out there until 4:30 am. Not kidding. No one wants this night to end so we end up going to Denny’s.

It’s now almost 6 am and most of us have early morning flights to catch and both Kevin and Brody have shifts at 8 am for their military jobs. Kevin and I say goodbye with a long hug and I can’t help but feel disappointed that I didn't get my make out. I have no clue if I will ever see this man again but he has reminded me of a valuable lesson that my grandmother taught me a long time ago: always look cute when going to the airport. You never know who’s going to be on your flight!

You and Me Baby Ain't Nothing But Mammals

I met an African man named Jean-Yves – where else?- dancing. He was dressed in a fashionable suit and vest complete with a stylish hat that would look ridiculous on a lesser man. I was amused when he asked for my number but couldn’t even remember my name. Normally I won’t give a guy my number if he can’t remember my name but Jean-Yves warranted a second chance. He handed me his phone to input my number and I entered it as “Mystery Salsa." Again, I was amused when he still didn’t ask my name but took to calling me “M.”

Jean-Yves texted (ugh) and invited me to an African birthday party. Loving it. I imagined it would be at one of the African-friendly nightclubs with perhaps a band playing international grooves. He gave me the address and we agreed to meet there at a reasonable hour on Saturday night.

I’m walking down the street while looking for the address. Huh. That’s weird. The address he gave me is to a church. Thinking he gave me the wrong address, I call him and get his voicemail. Hmph. I saunter up and ask a older gentleman if there is a bar/restaurant anywhere nearby. He smiles and asks if I’m looking for the African party. Gulp. He sends me around the side of the church and a life-size poster of the birthday boy alerts me that I’ve been invited to an African man’s 60th birthday party. I have two choices: bolt or walk in. What the hell? I walk in.

I’m stunned. It’s literally 150 Africans dressed in full African garb – as in the headdress and everything – milling about a church hall. There are old people, young people, children and babies - I am the only white person. Jean-Yves spots me and comes to retrieve me. I smile thinly and tell him this isn’t what I thought he meant by an African party. He looks confused and says “I said it was an African birthday party. Are you hungry?”

I ate delicious food. I talked to everyone. I danced with every single child in the room. Jean-Yves and I twirled around to a few salsa songs. A woman invited me to her wedding reception the following weekend. She knew a party girl when she saw one. To put it simply, I had a blast. I’m glad I didn’t bolt.

Jean-Yves walks me to my car like a nice boy and holds my hand as we cross the street. He is saying something about never being able to find a sweet girl with long hair (Apparently those are his two requirements for dating). We arrive at my car and I have to hand it to him. He goes right in for the kiss.

So disappointing! It’s not an awful kiss. Mechanically it is sound. How is it possible I don’t feel any chemistry with this gorgeous black man who dances like Patrick Swayze and dresses like Usher? Screw you, pheromones!

Last Song of the Night = Last Chance to Grind

On any given Friday night, you’ll find me at the rink playing ice hockey in a men’s league. What can I say? I’m a badass. For my actual birthday I went back to Ohio to spend the weekend with college friends and my parents. For my “DC birthday” I invited a group of six ladies out for an evening of ice hockey and booty dancing. Too legit to quit.

I don’t know how else to say this but I have cute friends. I’m not just saying that – it’s empirically proven. We have a particularly good game which probably has nothing to do with the fact the guys know six lovely ladies are watching. After the game, I quickly shower and change into a teeny tiny red dress. Slightly slutty? Perhaps – but it’s MY birthday after all.

We head to a sleazy nightclub in Arlington, Clarendon Ballroom, where another friend is waiting for us. With drinks in hand, Rashida ushers us onto the dance floor where she has already made friends. I’m not surprised. One guy is tall, broad shouldered and handsome but obviously interested in Rashida who is humoring him. His friend is shorter, ginger and bearded. Not exactly my type but he’s fun to dance with and he makes sure all of my friends have fun too. Bonus.

Many guys try to break into our group and look enviously at the two men allowed in the dance circle with seven hot ladies. One Turkish man infiltrates and absconds with April. I can’t tell if she needs rescuing or not so I shoot her a few ‘just give me the sign and I’ll swoop in’ looks. Yes, you can communicate all of that with one raised eyebrow. She seems content to let Turkish man monopolize her dance space so I return my attention to Brian. I’m not used to someone being able to keep up with me on the dance floor. I’m digging it. And him, unexpectedly. He’s from Idaho. I can’t help but make the joke “*I* da ho? YOU da Ho!” It’s terrible and I know it but it has already escaped my mouth and I can’t get it back. He laughs. Oh, it’s on.

There isn’t much time, though. And ginger man is not making any moves. I’m feeling magnanimous so I decide to help a brother out.

Brian Ballroom, the name that is later assigned to him in my cell phone, looks shocked but I don’t have to tell him twice. He’s an exceptional kisser and I don’t even mind the scratchy beard. We leave the club and I get this text message from him shortly thereafter: “Hey Ms. Ballroom, you were a riot :) Happy Birthday.” Aww, sweet. Too bad he ruined it with a later text “it’s a sad image thinking you’re snuggling alone on your birthday night.” Not as sad as you trying to holler at 3:45 am, buddy. Does this actually work on some women? It’s sort of like cat-calling. Has that ever worked in the history of gross men whistling at women on the street? No dice, Brian Ballroom. At least invite me to Panera for a bread bowl first. Sheesh.