PSA

Dear Men,

Please don't invite me on a coffee date. I want a cocktail.

Affectionately,

FAB

It Must Have Been Love...

FAB fell in love on the Q train today. And then we fell out. If Jake Gyllenhaal had a 30-45% scrawnier younger brother with excellent fashion sense in an extremely understated and "I'm-not-trying-hard-I-just-always-look-this-way" kind of way, complete with well-cultivated five o'clock shadow, it would be our new man: Low Key Hipsterish Jake Gyllenhaal (LKHJG). But of course, it's over now. A day trip inside the mind of a lunatic:

He got on with me at Herald Square and smouldered rakishly in the doorway across from me until Union Square, when he decided to sit right next to me(!!). FAB wondered if her iPod was cranked up too high. Can LKHJG hear this? Should I turn it down? Should I change music? Mountain Goats!? Neutral Milk!? Robyn!? Should I mention that I like his shoes? (Gay.) Or ask him about his unusual hat*? (Gay.) That I like his pants? (Still gay.) That I want to take off his pants? (Better. But also not.)  Is LKHJG leaning into me when the train decelerates?

Once we entered the cell phone corridor otherwise known as the Manhattan Bridge, LKHJG twiddled with his pocket computer checking out the latest tweets (Tweets?). FAB glanced furtively to see what was going on in Twitterville. Huffington Post! Should I mention that FAB has her very own HuffPo blog? (Ew! No!) Can he see me trying to see what's on his iPhone? Can he see me trying not to get caught trying to see what's on his iPhone? What does it all meeeeean?

LKHJG really seems like he's leaning into me when the train decelerates, and he isn't moving his arm. FAB read somewhere that if you want to pick someone up on the subway you should just make eye contact and smile and if they return the smile you should obviously get off the train where they get off and stalk them out of the station and then something something something and then you get married and live happily ever after. I'm pretty sure that was it. The internet is chock full of helpful dating advice for the Mr. and Miss Lonelyhearts of NYC and beyond, but LKHJG was sitting right next to us so we couldn't even initiate the eye contact/stalking launch sequence even if we had wanted to.

This is a perfect Missed Connection just waiting to happen! Do people even still read Missed Connections? Missed Connections are dumb. And isn't it an extra meta-y kind of dumb if you're sitting here contemplating the Missed Connectionness of it all when you could actually, like, same something, thereby not actually missing said connection? Why don't you just say something? Oooh he's getting off at the same stop! It's a sign! I don't even live here but have to get off at this stop to get to an appointment! Look ma, I'm not even stalking, in the traditional sense! Now's my chance! Oooh can't walk that fast! Legs short! Heels high! Too many stairs! Wait, he kinda walks funny. Is he bowlegged? Why does he look like he just got off a horse? Or worse. That's so Brokeback. And then LKHJG rounded the corner into the sunset and out of our lives forever. Good riddance.

And we wonder why we're still single.


 *Look, FAB is well aware than 99% of urban dudes cannot pull off a hat and not come off as a total douchewad. What can we say? LKHJG is part of the 1%.

Dear Lovies,

I apologize for the silence this past week. And, well, for the silence for the next two weeks. I've been all a tizzy in preparation for my adventure to the non-internet-having parts of the world. (Yes, these apparently do still exist, Virginia.)

Wish us luck and we shall meet you back here again in a couple of weeks, with even more sordid tales to share.

XOXO,

Gossip FAB

Ruminating

Acute self-awareness is such a liability.

Are We There Yet?

Recently, FAB went on a date. In Westchester. With a gentleman who LIVES in Westchester. It was all very genteel and nice: dinner at some quaint restaurant on a quaint Main St. of a quaint upon-Hudson hamlet followed by a regional musical theater production. When we first told our friends of our plans, the reactions ranged from lighthearted disbelief ("Wait, seriously?")to downright incredulity ("Who do you think you're kidding? Who are you pretending to be?"). FAB has long rejected potential suitors who live anywhere other than Brooklyn or Manhattan (I'm looking at YOU, far flung parts of Jackson Heights and Hoboken).

I'd always assumed this was a mere bit of narrow-minded geographic pragmatism on my part. I mean, let's be honest, it's not exactly a breeze to get from downtown Brooklyn to pretty much anywhere in Queens that isn't Long Island City let alone reversing the trip at, say, 8am on a Saturday morning in a pair of 4 inch heels. Or whatever. And Hoboken is in New Jersey, for God's sake.

And if our friends and local color feature reporting by the New York Times are any indication, we are far from alone in this kind of attitude among New Yorkers. In fact, it's probably one of the most well-worn tropes among the 25-40 single demographic. But I think fewer of us are willing to publicly go on record as saying that I won't date you who lives in [far flung borough/far flung part of our own borough], or God forbid, the suburbs, not just because it's incredibly inconvenient, but because I think your choice of neighborhood says something about who you are, your financial prudence (apparently I only hang with the deeply financially imprudent), and who you want the world to think you are. And lacking any additional concrete input about you, I judge you. And I judge your neighborhood.

So back to the aforementioned gentleman suitor. By graciously accepting this evening of suburban non-debauchery, was I making an official statement of sorts that I've finally become one of those "real" adults who is ready to settle down into a more staid and family-having lifestyle with a backyard and 2.5 dogs (or is it 2.5 kids?), or was I simply engaging in a little aspirational self-delusion? I have to admit that the next day, while strolling through one of the lovely yet likely unattainable neighborhoods that fronts directly onto the Long Island Sound, rubbing elbows with handsome young families with their 2.5 dogs and 2.5 kids in their Sunday best, I couldn't help but feel more than a twinge of longing. And jealousy. Definitely jealousy. So, judge me. Please. Clearly, we have lost our way.

Online Dating Profile Boner-Killers du Jour

As we may have mentioned in an earlier post, perusing online dating profiles takes on a certain online-shopping-like quality that probably hasn't done great things for our character. Because of a perceived hearty abundance of inventory, we often find ourselves dismissing people based on some minutiae we saw in their profile just cause it's easy (pic of dude performing standup comedy; dude living in some far-flung corner of Queens that may actual be Long Island for all we know; dude living in Long Island; favorite books include The Alchemist and/or anything by Ayn Rand; inexplicable proper noun treatment of words that simply aren't proper nouns; dude attended University of Iowa for something other than creative writing, like, say finance), whereas, if we met that person in an organic social situation, maybe we would have actually hit it off. FAB oscillates between thinking we're being too shallow and judgmental, dismissing potential mates based on fairly arbitrary criteria, and believing we're just being realistic about what we would want in a life partner. Maybe we're doing ourselves a disservice and are missing out on potential life mates because we are snobbish and close-minded. Or maybe not. Below are quotes drawn directly from the profiles of potential suitors in the NY metropolitan area.

"I am a fun, caring, and family-orientated gentleman."

"The most important thing I'm looking for in a person is Self Respect Inteliigency Ambition Open minded."*

"I am continually trying to extend my skill set and enhance my proprioception. it's kinda metaphysical."

To be continued...


*Honestly, if not for "inteliigency," we totally would've let the lack of parallelism slide.

Thinking...

Having feelings can be a real bitch sometimes.

Sunday in the Park with George, or, You Know, Whomever

Apparently FAB has been missing out on all the hot park action. Seriously, we had no idea this was, like, A Thing. And apparently all this public porking in Prospect Park has left behind "little trails" that "are really bad for the forest floor." You know, condoms, coconut rum, gold lamé thongs, and stuff.

Per Gothamist:

"Park spokesman Paul Nelson made it clear that this didn't mean the volunteers, or the park, were encouraging public sex: 'They were cribbing the steep part for better footing and to control erosion,' he said."

Whatever, Paul.

Thinking...

I wish there were a filter on OK Cupid where I could automatically exclude all dudes in bands from ever appearing in my matches. Or from even contacting me, while we're at it. Or me them. They're just bad news.

Delta, Meet OKC

A few weeks ago, the Paper of Record reported* the impending demise of FAB's Air Travel Theorem. Dutch airline KLM recently launched the "Meet and Seat" program, allowing flyers to hand select their own seatmates based on available information from their Linked In or Facebook profiles. Being able to prescreen potential seatmates will presumably increase the likelihood that you'll actually be seated next to someone you'd actually want to be seated next to, like, say, your future spouse. Or at least next to someone hot. What could possibly go wrong?

Although unfortunately, Meet and Seat would do nothing to prevent this sort of horror, all in all, FAB would welcome the proliferation of similar programs across all the major air carriers. (Frequent near-typos have brought to our attention that we would also welcome the proliferation of Meat and Seat programs.) But even if we don't meet the future Mr./Dr./Sir Fat Asian Baby on the next LGA to ATL, applying the online shopping-ish free market forces of online dating to air travel (or train travel!) will surely lead to hilarity. Or at the very least, a pretty good story.

*BTW, New York Times, if you're asking, yes. Yes, I would like to sit next to Mario Lopez. Thanks.

Even Educated Fleas?

"They were young males on the make, and they struck out not once, not twice, but a dozen times with a group of attractive females hovering nearby. So they did what so many men do after being repeatedly rejected: They got drunk, using alcohol as a balm for unfulfilled desire.

Fruit flies apparently self-medicate just like humans do, drowning their sorrows or frustrations for some of the same reasons, scientists reported Thursday. Male flies subjected to what amounted to a long tease — in a glass tube, not a dance club — preferred food spiked with alcohol far more than male flies that were allowed to mate."

Read the rest of the article here and feel a little bit less alone in this crazy world of ours. Or, like FAB, chuckle in awe at the majesty of scientific inquiry and pour yourself another drink.

Lost in Translation (Part II)

See Part I here.

Now, in addition to the aforementioned difficulty with accents, particularly on the telephone, FAB also has a probably totally unrelated aversion to the telephone in general. Our main goal when speaking on the phone is getting off the phone as quickly as possible without compromising the successful exchange of vital information. The desire to get off the phone ASAP increases even more when we cannot actually understand many of the words. In the few phone conversations we had with this very sweet boy we mostly just said "uhuh," "yeah," "ok," "that's awesome!" and "sounds great!" in rapidly cycling succession or in keeping with the cadence of the conversation. On this particular eve before the very sweet boy's arrival, the conversation followed the expected pattern, with the boy uttering what we assume to be actual words and FAB contributing some agreeable noises. When I sensed that the conversation was, in fact, nearly over, I closed with the standard, "Uhoh. Ok. Goodbye!" and hung up, smiling at how very sweet that English boy was.

The next day, when we finally met up with the very sweet boy, something was amiss. There was an awkwardness that had not been there before. I chalked it up to the week's separation and assumed everything would work itself out. That night, we met up with two of FAB's very closest friends in a downtown bar. As the night wore on, FAB was pleased to see that the very sweet boy was engaged in deep conversation with one of the very closest friends, heads leaned in all conspirational-like. When the very sweet boy saw me approaching the table, he excused himself and went to the bathroom. I gave my friend an inquisitive look, dying to know what they were talking about. (I'm nosy! Plus, he was a boy I was having a fling with!)

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"I dunno," she said. "He said he told you he loved you on the phone last night and all you said was 'Uhuh. Ok. Goodbye.' and then hung up on him."

Oops.

Related Correspondence: You're So Vain

Dear Self,

Why does it freak me out so much to see that a guy that I'm dating has hidden or deleted his profile on the dating site on which we met? Settle the fuck down. It's not all about YOU.

Affectionately yours,

Fat Asian Baby

The Double Standard Conundrum

Dear Self,

Why does it freak me out so much to see that a guy that I'm dating just logged into the dating site on which we met, when clearly the only reason I am privy to this confidence-compromising little tidbit is because I logged in too?
This is stupid.

Affectionately yours,

Fat Asian Baby

Lost in Translation (Part I)

Back when we were young and stupid (Translation: 10 years ago. Also maybe last month? But definitely 10 years ago.), FAB met this very sweet boy we likened to a golden retriever: adorable and kind, athletic, a fine physical specimen for his ilk, but perhaps a little light in certain intellectual departments.* We met in Maine, but he hailed from the waaay north parts of England. The parts of England even people from England would never deign to visit.

These people who live in these way northerly parts of England, they speak a different sort of English than we do here in the NY Metro area. FAB's never been so great with understanding different accents, and the difficulty increases exponentially when spoken to directly. (I suspect it might be some kind of wackadoo performance anxiety, related to shyness and stage fright.) And when said speech is conveyed indirectly - through a machine, say, a telephone - FAB's degree of comprehension pretty much hits the deck.

Shortly after FAB met this very sweet yet moderately incomprehensible English boy and had a very sweet and very short fling, we parted ways, with plans to meet up for a few days in New York before he was booted back to darkest England. The night before our scheduled rendezvous in the city, the boy called to chat.

To be continued...

*Ok. So I understand that golden retrievers are actually quite an intelligent breed. So they're really smart. Compared to other dogs. I'm merely maintaining that in a side-by-side comparison of FAB and golden retriever, FAB probably prevails. That's all.

McNuggets: A Love Story (Part II)

See Part I here.

I approach and knock on the window. Cabbie rolls his window down, and I ask if I can get in. He asks where I'm going. I say, "I just want some nuggets, please," so he motions for me to get in. Well, let me tell you: the McDonalds drive-thru in Central Brooklyn after midnight on a Saturday night is quite a hot spot. Mr. Cabbie and I were stuck in the drive thru line for about 30 minutes during which time we chatted it up about Haiti and Duvalier and the many great misfortunes that have befallen the country and what was going to become of it all following the earthquake and whether or not that will have turned into a blessing in disguise and perhaps with international attention and investment, things may be on the up and up for Haiti. (Ed. note: Wrong.)

After an eternity, it was finally our turn to order. I ask for the 10-piece McNuggets (so hungry!). Mr. Cabbie asks me if I want anything else, but I shake my head. He orders a few more items, and we pull around to the window to collect our food, at which point Mr. Cabbie starts handing back first, my McNugget prize, then a drink, and a small fries, all of which he had ordered on my behalf. (So thoughtful!) When I try and pass cash up to the front, he tells me it's his treat. We pull away from the window, and he asks where I'm going. I gesture across the street and mention that my friends are waiting for me (at this point, I've been gone for close to 45 minutes and I'm sure they've pretty much given me up for dead.) He pulls into a parking spot and asks if he can perhaps have my number. You may not know this but FAB has a serious aversion to the phone in general and to giving out her number in particular. Now, cabbies love FAB. And FAB loves cabbies. But for some reason (I suspect alcohol) the only response we could come up with on our feet was "I don't have a cell phone." Yes. It's 2011, and I tell the guy, I don't have a phone. Really. So instead, he gives me his number. I thank him for dinner and scoot back across the street. As I walk up to our picnic table, my friends look up at me like they've seen a ghost and ask where in God's name I have been all that time. "I think I just had a date with a cab driver," I explain. They continue to look at me like I'm nuts. "But LOOK!" I say, holding up and shaking my 10-piece nugget box (which now contains more like 4 pieces) fries, and medium drink. "He even bought me dinner!"

Ladies, if you'd like to meet a really very sweet Haitian gentleman* in his early 50s, just drop me a line. I'll give you his number.

*Not pictured. The gentleman cabbie pictured is another story entirely.

McNuggets: A Love Story (Part I)

FAB often writes about being unlucky in love and, well, on top of being unlucky, frequently partaking of just regular old fashioned poor decision-making. But every once in a while, decisions and people come together in just the right way to make you feel loved and appreciated and so very full of chicken nuggets.

Last spring, FAB and friends attended a concert at the Prospect Park bandshell. We drank a lot at the concert at the Prospect Park bandshell. But we did not eat anything at the concert at the Prospect Park bandshell. After the show ended, Weez and I decided to meet up with some friends at Hot Bird, a favorite drinking establishment that happens to be situated directly across the street from a bright and shiny McDonalds. Newsflash: a very hungry and moderately intoxicated Fat Asian Baby cannot walk by that brightly lit beacon of fast food with a proud all white meat McNugget banner unfurled in front without immediately becoming fixated on the need for McNuggets. So after sitting at a picnic table in the courtyard of the bar staring at the bright glow of those gorgeous golden arches across the street for the duration of two more drinks, I decide I need to take matters into my own hands. McNuggets will be had. Yes, they will.

FAB politely excuses herself from the group and hightails it across the street only to discover that the door to the McNugget Palace is locked. LOCKED! Despite all lights ablaze and employees clearly bustling around inside preparing orders of what must be boxes upon boxes of tender and juicy all white meat McNuggets for Other People. Curses! McDonalds closes at midnight! Consult cell phone. It is 12:10am. Foiled by indecision, yet again! But, wait, the drive-thru is 24 hours! FAB wanders over to the end of the drive thru line and contemplates her next move. The one other time we attempted to go through a drive thru on foot was in Texas, and, let's just say, it didn't go over that well. FAB examines the cars and notices a taxi three cars in.

To be continued...

Ruminating

How much of a rational empiricist can I really be? I still get palpably disappointed when I look at the time and notice I just missed my 11:11 wish despite having made wishes at 11:11 on a fairly regular basis since at least middle school and NOT ONE of them having ever come true. Yet.

Optimism or just plain stupidity?

Q.E.D.

FAB: He's total marriage material.

HFCNSBL: You CANNOT say he is marriage material until you have met him.

FAB: As in, good on paper.

HFCNSBL: Credentials don't count.

FAB: It doesn't mean I will actually want to marry him. The meaning of "marriage material" to me just means good on paper. And possibly pliable to my will. But he has political aspirations.

HFCNSBL: Well, i disagree about marriage material, cause the chemistry has to be there.

FAB: Anyway I wouldn't make much of a political wife. Too many skeletons in my closet. Namely drugs and dicks.

Ruminating*

Why are so many freelance journalists and photojournalists trying to find love? They don't live anywhere. They kind of live everywhere. That's no way to start a relationship, dude. Please, just give it up and stop tempting me with your super-progressive politics and worldly, adventurous, vaguely anti-establishment, emotionally and physically unavailable ways. (Related: Why are there so many fucking freelance journalists in Brooklyn?)

*Helpful Former Colleague Now Sounding Board L has suggested that FAB is an obsessive ruminator. It's a form of OCD. I can't argue with that. All "Thinking" posts shall henceforth be "Ruminating." Unless they're actually about thinking and not about ruminating. Which could happen.

Sound Check

Recently, FAB attended a reading in one of Brooklyn's finest independent bookstores. While waiting for a friend to get her book signed by Famous Author, we decided to kill time browsing through the front display of literary and artsy magazines or publications or whatever you call them. This had the multiple advantage of a)making FAB look intellectual, b)making FAB look, like, all indie and shit, and c)giving us something to do other than kinda shuffle about awkwardly, staring off into middle distance while people milled about with great literary purpose. FAB was pleasantly surprised to see the newish literary mag published by none other than MCOotSWIPMO (whom it is safe to conclude we are TRULY over, that being 2009 and all. We were all younger and far far stupider then. Or something.)

Quickly running my eyes over the list of contributors to see if I recognized any names and therefore gauge in a totally narrow-minded and reductionist kinda way whether the magazine was "Doing Well" from the point of view of someone who has very limited contact with the literary world.

Well, limited contact, my ass! I quickly discovered that I had had quite intimate relations with not only the founder and publisher but also at least two of the contributors to that particular issue. I wasn't sure whether to cry or pat myself on the back. Instead, I carefully replaced the magazine on the rack and indicated to my friend that actually, I think I'd rather wait outside.