Monday, February 7, 2011
Friday, February 12, 2010
The Ramen Effect
Question of the day: How many past/present/potential awkward relationships can you fit into a bowl of ramen noodles?
An unexpected text from a ghost of dates past prompted me to ponder this last night as I enjoyed a steaming hot bowl of Japanese brothy goodness at my new favorite ramen joint (Ippudo on 4th Ave. at 10th St. I highly recommend checking it out; worth the wait I assure you!). After only a brief musing I was able to calculate that, with a couple of minor stretches, I could probably tie a good handful of men to this particular eatery (none of whom I have actually eaten there with). How, you might ask? Let me count the ways:
1. My first Ippudo experience was only a few weeks ago. I had planned to meet my brother, but when I arrived, who but the infamous (at least to me and pretty much anyone that knows me on even the most basic of levels) magically disappearing and reappearing man is standing in the window, waiting on a table of his own! Let me explain. In brief, after several months of great dinners, almost religiously routine lunch hour phone chats, adoring text messages, introductions to our respective friends, and surprisingly great sex (read: boyfriend status for all intents and purposes), Mr. Reliable literally disappears off the face of the earth. Dinner on a Tuesday followed by a very satisfying sleepover at my apartment, text message on Thursday thanking me for the best dinner he's had since moving to New York (was it really just the food?), plans to get together on Friday, plans canceled, man vanishes. Forever. Until of course that night 3 months after breaking radio contact when we both showed up at the same hole-in-the-wall Chinatown eatery and were forced to share a large round table, complete with communal Lazy Susan ("Hey, can you pass the crispy duck? Oh, and a little bit of the moo shoo awkward?"), between our respective parties of six, most of whom knew us when we were together. Oh how I yearn to flesh out this story, but for the purposes of keeping posts to a manageable length, I will have to do that another time. Luckily, for round 2 of our Asian restaurant run-in I was able to avoid any conversation, and, because lightning only strikes once, we were not seated at the same table. Ok, so that's one.
2. Ever since getting involved in my most current unrealistic, wildly complex and definitively undefined relationship with a cute, Jewish (this one's for you, Mom and Dad), Atlanta based law student with an extreme affinity for soup, he has been telling me about this "amazing" ramen place called Ippipso. No, Ippuppy. No, wait, Ipp__ something? Whatever. I didn't know his taste in food well enough to know if "amazing" to him was actually up to par with my obnoxiously elitist taste and as such I discarded his recommendation, assuming that he was most definitely not an educated foodie with an appropriately refined palate. However, after my brother suggested that we have dinner at Ippudo, this "sick new ramen joint" (not actually new), I realized that my long distance non-boyfriend had not led me astray. Naturally, I Sapporo-dialed him on my walk home from dinner to share my excitement over the discovery that he might actually have food legitimacy. Although this particular connection is probably irrelevant and rather contrived, it is nonetheless a connection and a good excuse to introduce a character that will be appearing in many posts to come.
3. Now, finally, the man who triggered this rambling and borderline nonsensical posting. We can just call him "The Lawyer". This is a particularly comfortable pseudonym given that this is actually how I refer to him 90% of the time, prompting many to ask if I even know his real name (yes). The Lawyer was gifted this moniker when he very generously offered his legal expertise after my roommate and I found ourselves in the middle of the most dreaded New York City nightmare: BEDBUGS. For anyone who doesn't know about the bedbug epidemic (yes, epidemic), I will not waste time here filling you in. Just know that they actually exist outside of the ever popular goodnight rhyme and will feast not only on your flesh, but your wallet and sanity as well. Desperate for help from our less-than-helpful landlord, I turned to the 30-something lawyer friend of my coworker whom I had met on a Jack Daniels soaked night out for my other coworkers birthday just about a year ago. We emailed back and forth about legal matters until he suggested that it would be much easier to talk in person. Over dinner. At an insanely delicious (and well out of my price range) Sushi restaurant. Turns out The Lawyer has certifiably excellent taste in the finer things and apparently enjoys sharing them with younger women such as myself whose budgets fall far short of their desired lifestyle. It was a perfectly pleasant (and delicious) evening. Some further emails were exchanged but we didn't go out again until approximately 3-4 months after said Sushi dinner during which time we had a couple more dinners, but then lost contact for another several months. Until last night. I had somewhat lost interest after learning of an older, bi-sexual pseudo-girlfriend who lives in Albany but comes down to NYC here and there for some friendly fun and threesomes (no, seriously), so I almost dismissed the invitation. However, after some further consideration, I decided to give it a go. I've never even so much as kissed The Lawyer and at present he remains no more than a dining companion, so I figured why not? It's a guaranteed great dinner that I could otherwise never afford and some pleasant conversation with a man who is tall enough to allow me an outfit with heels (thank God). So apparently we're on for Tuesday. Let's just hope his wining and dining isn't an effort to butter me up for a more "group oriented" kind of date experience; after last year's Valentines disaster, I have definitively decided that three is NOT my kind of crowd.
Well, that's about as far as I could stretch the whole ramen thing. Now that I'm at the end of this post I've realized it doesn't quite tie things together as seamlessly as I had imagined, but alas, I'm new at this!
An unexpected text from a ghost of dates past prompted me to ponder this last night as I enjoyed a steaming hot bowl of Japanese brothy goodness at my new favorite ramen joint (Ippudo on 4th Ave. at 10th St. I highly recommend checking it out; worth the wait I assure you!). After only a brief musing I was able to calculate that, with a couple of minor stretches, I could probably tie a good handful of men to this particular eatery (none of whom I have actually eaten there with). How, you might ask? Let me count the ways:
1. My first Ippudo experience was only a few weeks ago. I had planned to meet my brother, but when I arrived, who but the infamous (at least to me and pretty much anyone that knows me on even the most basic of levels) magically disappearing and reappearing man is standing in the window, waiting on a table of his own! Let me explain. In brief, after several months of great dinners, almost religiously routine lunch hour phone chats, adoring text messages, introductions to our respective friends, and surprisingly great sex (read: boyfriend status for all intents and purposes), Mr. Reliable literally disappears off the face of the earth. Dinner on a Tuesday followed by a very satisfying sleepover at my apartment, text message on Thursday thanking me for the best dinner he's had since moving to New York (was it really just the food?), plans to get together on Friday, plans canceled, man vanishes. Forever. Until of course that night 3 months after breaking radio contact when we both showed up at the same hole-in-the-wall Chinatown eatery and were forced to share a large round table, complete with communal Lazy Susan ("Hey, can you pass the crispy duck? Oh, and a little bit of the moo shoo awkward?"), between our respective parties of six, most of whom knew us when we were together. Oh how I yearn to flesh out this story, but for the purposes of keeping posts to a manageable length, I will have to do that another time. Luckily, for round 2 of our Asian restaurant run-in I was able to avoid any conversation, and, because lightning only strikes once, we were not seated at the same table. Ok, so that's one.
2. Ever since getting involved in my most current unrealistic, wildly complex and definitively undefined relationship with a cute, Jewish (this one's for you, Mom and Dad), Atlanta based law student with an extreme affinity for soup, he has been telling me about this "amazing" ramen place called Ippipso. No, Ippuppy. No, wait, Ipp__ something? Whatever. I didn't know his taste in food well enough to know if "amazing" to him was actually up to par with my obnoxiously elitist taste and as such I discarded his recommendation, assuming that he was most definitely not an educated foodie with an appropriately refined palate. However, after my brother suggested that we have dinner at Ippudo, this "sick new ramen joint" (not actually new), I realized that my long distance non-boyfriend had not led me astray. Naturally, I Sapporo-dialed him on my walk home from dinner to share my excitement over the discovery that he might actually have food legitimacy. Although this particular connection is probably irrelevant and rather contrived, it is nonetheless a connection and a good excuse to introduce a character that will be appearing in many posts to come.
3. Now, finally, the man who triggered this rambling and borderline nonsensical posting. We can just call him "The Lawyer". This is a particularly comfortable pseudonym given that this is actually how I refer to him 90% of the time, prompting many to ask if I even know his real name (yes). The Lawyer was gifted this moniker when he very generously offered his legal expertise after my roommate and I found ourselves in the middle of the most dreaded New York City nightmare: BEDBUGS. For anyone who doesn't know about the bedbug epidemic (yes, epidemic), I will not waste time here filling you in. Just know that they actually exist outside of the ever popular goodnight rhyme and will feast not only on your flesh, but your wallet and sanity as well. Desperate for help from our less-than-helpful landlord, I turned to the 30-something lawyer friend of my coworker whom I had met on a Jack Daniels soaked night out for my other coworkers birthday just about a year ago. We emailed back and forth about legal matters until he suggested that it would be much easier to talk in person. Over dinner. At an insanely delicious (and well out of my price range) Sushi restaurant. Turns out The Lawyer has certifiably excellent taste in the finer things and apparently enjoys sharing them with younger women such as myself whose budgets fall far short of their desired lifestyle. It was a perfectly pleasant (and delicious) evening. Some further emails were exchanged but we didn't go out again until approximately 3-4 months after said Sushi dinner during which time we had a couple more dinners, but then lost contact for another several months. Until last night. I had somewhat lost interest after learning of an older, bi-sexual pseudo-girlfriend who lives in Albany but comes down to NYC here and there for some friendly fun and threesomes (no, seriously), so I almost dismissed the invitation. However, after some further consideration, I decided to give it a go. I've never even so much as kissed The Lawyer and at present he remains no more than a dining companion, so I figured why not? It's a guaranteed great dinner that I could otherwise never afford and some pleasant conversation with a man who is tall enough to allow me an outfit with heels (thank God). So apparently we're on for Tuesday. Let's just hope his wining and dining isn't an effort to butter me up for a more "group oriented" kind of date experience; after last year's Valentines disaster, I have definitively decided that three is NOT my kind of crowd.
Well, that's about as far as I could stretch the whole ramen thing. Now that I'm at the end of this post I've realized it doesn't quite tie things together as seamlessly as I had imagined, but alas, I'm new at this!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
A Valentines ménage à trois
Valentines Day: Love it or hate it, it's that time again! V-Day has never really been a favorite holiday of mine, however, this year I can at least look forward to the fact that save for an apocalyptic meteor striking earth, nothing could reasonably happen that would be worse than last year. What, you might ask, could have possibly been that bad?
Imagine this: You wake up in a sun-drenched, Santa Monica apartment belonging to a man whom you've known (both in the platonic and romantic sense of the word) for over 5 years . You get dressed as he feeds his 5-month-old, devastatingly adorable Husky puppy. When the puppy is fed and you're ready to go, you all leave the apartment for a walk along the Santa Monica promenade. You stop at The Coffee Bean for some delicious, blended coffee concoction, not available in the Northeast. Frozen beverage in hand, you continue down the promenade to a chorus of "look how cute!"s and "how old is he?!"s, stopping every few feet to let the oglers pet the slobbering little canine. You stop in a Sunglass Hut where he helps you pick out a beautiful new pair of (red) designer shades before heading to the beach so that you can put your feet in the Pacific. You stroll down the shore, taking pictures of each other, laughing about times past and throwing a tennis ball for the puppy. When the sun starts to set, you head to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for the Valentines Day dinner that you will prepare from scratch. You return to his apartment where you sip red wine and smoke a joint while you cook the dinner that you will eat on the table he has carefully set, complete with a red candle as the centerpiece.
You might be thinking to yourself that this sounds like a no less than lovely little Valentines Day. Well, that might have been the case if it weren't for the fact that I left out one little detail: this man has a girlfriend. And it isn't you. Now you might be assuming that this man was cheating on her with you; still not an ideal V-Day set-up, but exciting in that forbidden kind of way. But alas, you have been mislead.
Let me clear a few things up. First of all, Mr. Santa Monica's girlfriend was present for the majority of the events detailed in the above description. She was present during the preparation and consumption of the Valentines Day dinner. I am no longer sleeping with Mr. Santa Monica nor was I at the time of my visiting him. When I woke up in his "sun-drenched apartment," I was on the couch, in the living room (that had not yet been furnished with window blinds), literally getting urinated on by the puppy that he and his girlfriend have raised together. The talks about times past during our walk on the beach centered around his love for his new girlfriend and his complete lack of continued feelings for me ("Isn't it great?! That we can hang out and there is NO SEXUAL TENSION anymore?! It's not like before at ALL!). He is (and was then) an Ex. Please note that I did not say "ex-boyfriend," as I have never had the convenience of being able to assign a label to any of the (very) many, usually tremendously complicated, relationships that I have had with men over the past decade or so (at times leading my poor parents to question my sexuality as they are not kept privy to my casual sexual exploits). So, Mr. Santa Monica was no exception. Relationship complicated? Check. Long history of sexual tension? Check. Release of sexual tension on a few select occasions? Check. Elusive and impossibly undefinable relationship? Check check and check!
How, you might ask, did I end up forced into servility, slaving in the kitchen for literally hours (alone) cooking Valentines Day dinner for my Ex and his current lover? I wish I knew. It was something to do with a poorly timed business trip to Southern California, a lack of other places to stay, and a group dinner that in the end, was only attended by our small group of 3. If that's not awkward, I don't know what is.
I think this year I'll settle for excessive chocolate consumption and a chick flick.
Imagine this: You wake up in a sun-drenched, Santa Monica apartment belonging to a man whom you've known (both in the platonic and romantic sense of the word) for over 5 years . You get dressed as he feeds his 5-month-old, devastatingly adorable Husky puppy. When the puppy is fed and you're ready to go, you all leave the apartment for a walk along the Santa Monica promenade. You stop at The Coffee Bean for some delicious, blended coffee concoction, not available in the Northeast. Frozen beverage in hand, you continue down the promenade to a chorus of "look how cute!"s and "how old is he?!"s, stopping every few feet to let the oglers pet the slobbering little canine. You stop in a Sunglass Hut where he helps you pick out a beautiful new pair of (red) designer shades before heading to the beach so that you can put your feet in the Pacific. You stroll down the shore, taking pictures of each other, laughing about times past and throwing a tennis ball for the puppy. When the sun starts to set, you head to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for the Valentines Day dinner that you will prepare from scratch. You return to his apartment where you sip red wine and smoke a joint while you cook the dinner that you will eat on the table he has carefully set, complete with a red candle as the centerpiece.
You might be thinking to yourself that this sounds like a no less than lovely little Valentines Day. Well, that might have been the case if it weren't for the fact that I left out one little detail: this man has a girlfriend. And it isn't you. Now you might be assuming that this man was cheating on her with you; still not an ideal V-Day set-up, but exciting in that forbidden kind of way. But alas, you have been mislead.
Let me clear a few things up. First of all, Mr. Santa Monica's girlfriend was present for the majority of the events detailed in the above description. She was present during the preparation and consumption of the Valentines Day dinner. I am no longer sleeping with Mr. Santa Monica nor was I at the time of my visiting him. When I woke up in his "sun-drenched apartment," I was on the couch, in the living room (that had not yet been furnished with window blinds), literally getting urinated on by the puppy that he and his girlfriend have raised together. The talks about times past during our walk on the beach centered around his love for his new girlfriend and his complete lack of continued feelings for me ("Isn't it great?! That we can hang out and there is NO SEXUAL TENSION anymore?! It's not like before at ALL!). He is (and was then) an Ex. Please note that I did not say "ex-boyfriend," as I have never had the convenience of being able to assign a label to any of the (very) many, usually tremendously complicated, relationships that I have had with men over the past decade or so (at times leading my poor parents to question my sexuality as they are not kept privy to my casual sexual exploits). So, Mr. Santa Monica was no exception. Relationship complicated? Check. Long history of sexual tension? Check. Release of sexual tension on a few select occasions? Check. Elusive and impossibly undefinable relationship? Check check and check!
How, you might ask, did I end up forced into servility, slaving in the kitchen for literally hours (alone) cooking Valentines Day dinner for my Ex and his current lover? I wish I knew. It was something to do with a poorly timed business trip to Southern California, a lack of other places to stay, and a group dinner that in the end, was only attended by our small group of 3. If that's not awkward, I don't know what is.
I think this year I'll settle for excessive chocolate consumption and a chick flick.
Monday, February 8, 2010
My Awkward Introduction
Despite several suggestions made by friends, coworkers, family members and at times, complete strangers, I've been reluctant to take the plunge and actually start my own blog. My hesitation stemmed mainly from the assumption that no one, aside from perhaps my mother, would ever want to actually read what I have to say (incidentally, my mother will be one of a select few who I will go to painstaking lengths to keep from ever becoming aware of this blog's existence, sorry Mom). Despite constant reinforcement that the events in my life are exceedingly outrageous, generally improbable and often a source of comedic relief for the less embarrassment prone individuals in my life, it wasn't until recently that I came to the following realization: No, this stuff doesn't happen to everyone. It was with the acceptance of this somewhat demoralizing revelation that I decided it was time to just get over it (whatever "it" is) and start writing this stuff down.
However, this decision wasn't met without further hesitation; I feared that this blog had already "been done." And not only had it "been done," but done so well that it became one of the most ubiquitous and popular television shows in recent history. Yes, I'm talking about Sex and the City. I didn't want to come off like a less glamorous, wannabe Carrie Bradshaw, with a realistically small apartment that I share with my cat, a roommate, and a shoe and clothing collection that is only slightly beyond my means. Unfortunately, I realized that no matter how I tried to spin it, that is exactly what would happen. So, instead of trying to ignore the giant, Manolo Blahnik clad elephant in the room, I decided to embrace the fact that this blog might as well be an un-Hollywoodized version of Carrie's column in the New York Star. And I'm OK with that. I'm OK with it because although many of the stories that I will share here could probably be interchanged with one of the many fictional tales of Carrie and Co.'s often improbable, usually entertaining and generally mortifying exploits around Manhattan, all of mine are true.
So, now that I've cleared the air, it is with great pleasure (and a small measure of discomfort) that I invite you to sit back, relax and exploit for the purposes of your own entertainment, the impossibly awkward string of events and encounters that make up my silly little life.
xoxo,
Awkward Girl
However, this decision wasn't met without further hesitation; I feared that this blog had already "been done." And not only had it "been done," but done so well that it became one of the most ubiquitous and popular television shows in recent history. Yes, I'm talking about Sex and the City. I didn't want to come off like a less glamorous, wannabe Carrie Bradshaw, with a realistically small apartment that I share with my cat, a roommate, and a shoe and clothing collection that is only slightly beyond my means. Unfortunately, I realized that no matter how I tried to spin it, that is exactly what would happen. So, instead of trying to ignore the giant, Manolo Blahnik clad elephant in the room, I decided to embrace the fact that this blog might as well be an un-Hollywoodized version of Carrie's column in the New York Star. And I'm OK with that. I'm OK with it because although many of the stories that I will share here could probably be interchanged with one of the many fictional tales of Carrie and Co.'s often improbable, usually entertaining and generally mortifying exploits around Manhattan, all of mine are true.
So, now that I've cleared the air, it is with great pleasure (and a small measure of discomfort) that I invite you to sit back, relax and exploit for the purposes of your own entertainment, the impossibly awkward string of events and encounters that make up my silly little life.
xoxo,
Awkward Girl
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