The One

The time has come for me to tell you about "the one". The one who inspired the blog. The one who led so many people to say to me, "You need to tell that story to the world". The one who compels me to use language that Andrew Dice Clay would be appalled to hear.

There are a few reasons that I've held off telling this story until now:

1.) "The one" is a complete narcissist. He has read the blog in the past and if he read this, he would be wearing this post like a badge of honor. And frankly, I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. So, I had to wait until his interest in me had subsided, which it seems to have done.

2.) I wanted to build up my readership. I try to make this blog funny and amusing to my readers and not to sound like a bitter, jaded, ex-girlfriend. But, it's hard to find that voice when telling this story because this guy is just so damn shitty.

3.) It was hard to narrow down which parts of the story to tell. He's done so many crappy things to me that if I wrote about all of it, the tome would rival War and Peace and blogger would kick me off for taking up all the storage space on their server.

But, all things considered, I think that I am finally ready to tell the story...the Story of Douche.

When I first met Douche, he introduced himself to me as "John". A few months into the relationship, he admitted that his name was actually "Mark". And then a few months after that, I found out that his name was actually "Mike". For the sake of simplicity, I will refer to him as to how he's listed in my contacts to warn me not to answer when he calls: "Douche".

We clicked right away. We went out to dinner and had amazing conversation and a great time. He was a perfect gentleman. He paid for dinner. We had a lovely good night kiss and he ended the night with "When can I see you again?" He was smart. He was fun. And he gave me a lot of attention. Everything that I had been looking for. However, after a few months, when I still hadn't been to his place, or met any of his friends, I started to get a little suspicious that maybe he hadn't been telling me the truth about his life.

I kept telling myself that he spent way too much time with me to be involved with someone else. He would stay over at my house. We always went out to dinner in public. He would stop by my office. But, something was not right. My intuition was telling me that he wasn't being straight. I brought it up a few times. His answer would always be accusatory. "Why don't you trust me?" "Are you going to always have these walls up?" "Will you just let me in?" "You googled me? What are you? Some kind of stalker?" It was my lack of trust that led me to wait a few months before being intimate with him. And not sleeping with him just added to my confusion, as I continued to tell myself, if he were cheating on someone with me, he would be insisting that we have sex. It's "secret lovers" not "secret dinner companions". So, I continued to ignore my intuition.

After about three months, he took me out to lunch one day and told me that he really wanted me to trust him. He said that I was right and he hadn't been completely truthful with me. His name was really Mark. He was married to a woman named Heather. They had a two-year old daughter. I was devastated. I didn't want to be right about this. I almost walked right out of the restaurant, but it was Bertucci's pizza and really, who can walk out on the Bertucci Menucci? He said that he had filed for divorce, but he didn't want to leave the house because he didn't want to give up custody of his daughter. He also said that if his wife found out that he was dating she would do her best to make sure that he didn't get custody. This all sounded a little fishy to me.

But, he was a born salesman. And he sold me.

Knowing that I was exceptionally proficient at facebook stalking, he covered all his bases with his story. I found his divorce complaint in the court records. I found his wife's facebook page where there was a daughter, but no trace of any husband in any of the photos. That would be consistent with his story. The story seemed true. I continued to date him.

While all of this was happening, I had picked up a couple of SAT tutoring clients. One of them lived out in Western MA, and I would go to his house on Saturday mornings to give him lessons. One Saturday morning, I was leaving the lesson and driving down the street. And I saw Mark, walking a black lab, seeing my very recognizable car, and looking extremely freaked out. Now, this was already odd as Mark lived in Ashland, MA. At the time, we were in Hopkinton. I pulled over to the curb and he opened the door and sat in the passenger seat. Both of us said, "What are you doing here?" at the same time. I responded first, "I had a tutoring session down the street. Now, you go. You don't live here. Why are you walking your dog through this neighborhood?"

That's when he told me everything. Heather and Mark were getting a divorce. They did have a two year old daughter. What he neglected to tell me before was that he wasn't Mark. He had stolen Mark's whole story. His name was Mike. At my insistence, he showed me his driver's license. He had two sons. He was married. He had no intention of getting divorced. But, he "still wanted to see me." I entertained a vision of him being blasted out of my passenger side door, hitting a tree, and sliding down the trunk like a cartoon character. Alas, my car, though awesome, did not come with a passenger side ejection seat. I settled for yelling at him to "Get the fuck out of my car" and left him in a cloud of adulterous dust after he did so. I've been ignoring his calls ever since. For about six months after I ended the relationship, he called me and sent me texts and tried to get me to speak with him. I never did understand why he wanted the relationship to continue.

The way he got caught is too much of a coincidence. And now I hold a strong belief that nature has a way of balancing everything out. I do try to help it out a little bit by telling this story to every single person that I have a longer-than-ten-minute conversation with in the hopes that some day it will get back to his wife.

The good news is that I learned two important lessons from all of this. Guilty men always get mad at you for not trusting them. They will accuse you of being "crazy" or "trying to sabotage the relationship." The non-guilty men will laugh it off. They will say you're being silly and you'll believe them. That ties into the second lesson: Always trust your instincts.

So, that's the story. The story of the shittiest shitheads of all shitheads. I apologize that this entry was a lot darker than my other ones. And I promise that next time I'll be funnier. But, I think that this story is a good insight into why I am the way I am (freaking amazing) and the choices that I make today (better ones). Thanks for reading, all.

Sponge of Love

I think that the lead singer of the band, Sponge, love potion number nined me the other night. But, more about that later.

I've taken a few trips to the House of Blues in Boston recently. This past Saturday night, I saw the Summerland Tour. If this tour hasn't hit your town yet...go. GO! It is so awesome. It's put together by Art Alexakis of Everclear, and the lineup includes Everclear, Filter, Live, and Sponge. Granted, some of my friends gave me a tough time about going and yours will too (Crazy Pete: "Oh right! I forgot you took a time machine back to 1995 this weekend"). But it's worth the gibes and barbs when you jump headfirst into a nostalgia of flannel and wallet chains, eyebrow rings and long-sleeve billabong tees.

Now, I don't believe that I've mentioned this before, but I hate the House of Blues. I love the acoustics and I love the bands that they get. But some of the employees there are really mean and take their job way too seriously. I've seen people get kicked out for singing loudly, dancing silly, tripping up the stairs even though they're not drunk, just klutzy. And when you pay $50-70 dollars to see a band, getting kicked out for no reason at all is a big deal. Luckily, it's never happened to me, but I do think that a lot of the security there needs to take a page from the Middle-East-Do-Whatever-The-Fuck-You-Want-Just-Don't-Get-Us-Shut-Down Playbook and maybe ease up and relax just a tad.

All that being said, they don't let the over-zealous police academy dropout types in the Foundation Room, which is the VIP room at the House of Blues. It's not as VIP as you think. It only costs $20.00 extra to your ticket to gain access. But, it makes you feel important when you walk into a "members only" section of a concert venue, even if you only paid twenty bucks. And this was a special event as we were treated to an acoustic set by Everclear and a meet and greet. (Note: I've been to a few meet and greets, they are usually as awkward as flipping someone off in your car and then having to stop next to them at a red light. But, the members of Everclear are probably the friendliest, warmest musicians that I've ever met and we had a nice, cozy time.)

Ok, so back to Vinnie Dombroski and the magic rock star spell he put on me. When Sponge took the stage as the first band, I was excited! Molly! Plowed! I still remember being as mad as Glenn Beck at a bra-burning bonfire when I realized after I bought the Empire Records Soundtrack that Plowed wasn't on it! Those guys rocked! And I had heard about how sexy Vinnie the lead singer was, so I was psyched to see him on stage, as I'd never seen him before.

He took the stage...he was wearing a gigantic pyrite chain necklace, a jacket with no shirt, and a cowboy hat. I thought to myself...this is the guy? The sexy lead singer of Sponge? The one girls go crazy over? I came to the conclusion that maybe he just wasn't my type. "Just not for me," I thought to myself. And then he gripped the microphone and sang his first note. By the end of the show, I was pumping my fist in the air and jumping up and down, hoping that he would be able to get a glimpse of me among the crowd. I was THAT girl in the audience. That was ME. After their set, when they were signing CDs, I went up to him and said, "I really liked the new song." He looked deep into my eyes and said, "I think I'm in love with you." or maybe he said "thank you." Whatever. I do remember that he then asked me what my name was and  when I told him, he wrote: "To Sweet Melissa--Vin" on my CD. And even though I'm sure that he's written that to every woman named Melissa who has ever approached him with something to sign ever, it made me swoon. By the way, I'd like to personally thank the Allman Brothers for giving lead singers a hot way to sign my stuff.

In the past few days, my crush has developed into an unhealthy obsession. I went from "well, he's tall and goofy" to not being able to breathe when I come upon a picture of him on the internet. I'm scaring myself; I don't know my own stalker strength. I have found out where he lives (Detroit suburb). I've seen pictures of a barbecue at his friend's house. I'm close to friending his brother on facebook. If this is creeping all of you out, just imagine how I feel! I'm usually pretty laid back about my crushes. For example, I think that Seth Meyers and I would make a good couple and eventually it would be great if we could get married, but if it's meant to be, it'll be. I don't need to chase him down. But for four nights straight, I've been hugging my autographed CD to my chest before I go to bed every night. I've been trying to find the antidote by looking at pictures of him smoking cigarettes, smiling with his gold tooth in view, a desperate attempt to remind myself that he's probably disgusting. But, to no avail.

There's only one logical explanation...Vinnie Dombroski is a warlock. I'm under some form of hex. My PBR was spiked with the number niner. I wish I could remember how Tate Donovan and Sandra Bullock solved this problem, but alas I don't think I've ever seen the end of the movie.

To make it even more mysterious, the one thing that I can't find out about him is who he's married to. He was wearing a wedding ring, but there's no talk of his wife anywhere on google or wikipedia, or facebook. I think that it's all part of his evil plot. As we all know from George Costanza, wearing "the hardware" automatically makes women want to have sex with you. I suspect that Vinnie the Wonderful Wizard of Sponge knew exactly what he was doing and now I'm left with the daunting task of attending every Sponge concert in New England. Someday, I hope to find the cure for this Sponge sickness. Until then, Godspeed.

Pros and Cons of The Big Move, Part 2

Pros of moving from Quincy to Somerville after 11 years

Last week, I shared the cons of moving, especially after living in your apartment for 11 years. Today, I'd like to share the pros. Here they are, in order of most to least interesting:

1.) 11 years of crap- Yes, this was a con, but it's more of a pro! I had so many surprise treasures waiting for me in unknown closets! From a closet in my hallway, I pulled out a gift bag from behind some boxes, opened it, and Holy Christmas in Springtime, it was a still-wrapped DVD collection of Buffy the Vampire Slayer seasons one and two!! At some point in time (Update: 5 years ago), someone (Update: My sister, Stacy) gave me the DVDs for Christmakah! And I'm as psyched about watching them now as I probably was back then! It's like Christmakah all over again.

Not only did I find presents, I found this autographed picture of Baywatch's David Chokachi:

And this one of MTV's Todd 1 Brown:

My friend and I wrote Todd 1 a bazillion fan letters when we were thirteen. I was a little bit jealous of her because her autographed picture said "Lots of Love", while mine said, "You Down With MTV?" which is probably what Todd 1 used to say to his lesbian fans. But, I'm over it...clearly.

2.) Moving to a new place- Another great thing about moving is that you get to explore new places. I'm planning on becoming a regular at the Thirsty Scholar because a) it's within stumbling home distance from my new apartment, and b) they have very patient staff. I had a little housewarming there the week that I moved (yes, I had a housewarming party at a bar rather than my actual house), and even though I babbled to the waitress about twelve or thirteen times that I just moved to the neighborhood and that I was going to be a regular, she kept a smile on her face every time I said it and waited until my back was turned before rolling her eyes. That's good service!

3.) Good way to clean your apartment. If you ever want to give your house a thorough cleaning, move out of it. You end up throwing away all the stuff you don't use anymore and you can trick people into helping you by calling it "packing".

All in all, I'm excited about my move from Quincy to Somerville. It'll be refreshing to walk down the street and get honked at because I'm in the way, rather than because my bum looks nice in my jeans. The homeless people are more veteran-like than methhead-like. And the redline stops on this side of Boston seem to go much quicker.

But, I will miss the place that I called home for 11 years, and the friends that I've made there. Trivia night at the Commonwealth. Dinner at the Fat Cat. Impromptu late night make-out sessions with Brian, the 22-year old Papa Gino's delivery guy. Blowing off going to O'Lindy's bowling alley because I live next door and I can always go next weekend...and doing it for 11 years straight. The memories will always stay with me. I did a lot of growing up in Quincy and I'll never forget that phase in my life. So, thanks to the Q! I'll see you soon!

And to Somerville, thank you for having me! Although it's only been a few weeks, there was a recent moment when, while the lightning flashed outside my window, amidst the cardboard boxes and plastic bags, you finally started to feel like home.

Pros and Cons of The Big Move, Part 1

After eleven years of living in Quincy, I finally decided to bite the bangers and mash and move. I am now an official resident of Somerville, MA. The move made a heckuva lot of sense for me. I spend three or four of my nights in Somerville or Cambridge in one Square or another. And I work in Waltham. The only thing that had kept me from moving until now was the thought of packing up 11 years worth of crap and that I suffer from a debilitating bout of chronic laziness. But, when a friend of mine was moving out of her apartment, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to snag her digs. Before I could talk myself out of it with visions of cardboard boxes and treks to the dumpster and thoughts of what could potentially be growing underneath my love seat, I signed the lease and moved last week.

During my move, I discovered that there were pros and cons of moving. I'll start with the cons and get my complaining out of the way:

Cons of moving from Quincy to Somerville after 11 years

1.) Going through the afore-mentioned 11 years of crap. When you've lived in the same place for 11 years straight, you amass a lot of stuff that you haven't looked at in 11 years. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I made twenty-two trips to the dumpster behind my building and three trips to goodwill. And I STILL had a ton of junk left over, enough so that I received disapproving looks from my movers when they arrived on Monday morning, and I had to hide my head in shame like a coned puppy.

In a cabinet that I clearly had not opened in the past 8 years, I found a stocked-disgusting-liquor-that-I-hate stash.

Triple Sec, yuck. Orange Stoli, blech. I think there's even a cup o'noodles in there in the back? My sister, Lori, was kind of enough to throw it all in the trash.

2.) Finding scary bottles of goo. Speaking of disgusting things in cabinets, I also found a bottle of brown goo that used to be ketchup. The sell-by date was 2008. I didn't look that closely, or take a picture because I was having trouble keeping my noodles down, and I'm sorry for that because I bet that you're all wondering what 2008 ketchup looks like.

3.) Dropping your keys down an elevator shaft. This last one might not be a con related to EVERYONE's move, but it sure was a con of mine. At the end of move-in day, after three straight days of packing and moving, I was so tired that I was having trouble getting my body to do what my brain wanted it to do. My very last job of the day was to go to my old apartment in Quincy and clean out all of the trash that we had left that day. As my parents and I were walking down the hall to the elevator, I walked right into the fire extinguisher box on the wall. My parents laughed at me because they're super sympathetic. My mom made the statement, "In 11 years of living here, have you ever done that before?" And I laughed and said no and turned back around toward the elevator. As I turned, just as my dad opened the elevator door, my car keys dropped out of my hand and rolled toward the crevice between the elevator floor and the hall.The three of us watched with horror as the car key slipped right through the crack into the darkness below. Now, this would upset someone who had just been to Disney World, rode Splash Mountain five times in a row, watched the Electric Light parade, sang along to It's a Small World and oooh-ed and aaaah-ed at the fireworks exploding over Cinderella's castle. To someone who had just been through one of the most exhausting days of her life, it was too much to handle. And I had a meltdown.

During my meltdown, my poor parents who were just as tired as I was, tried to offer helpful suggestions. Call the landlord! (Didn't answer.) Call the fire department! (Sad that I was crying but couldn't help). We finally decided that my dad would drive me to Somerville where I could get the spare (luckily, I knew right where I had packed it!) and then back down to Quincy to get my car. So, that's what we did. By the time that we got back to Quincy, it was after midnight. I thanked my parents for all of their help and said goodbye and watched them drive away. With a sigh, I went over to my car in the parking lot, pressed the alarm button on the key and watched...as nothing happened. Apparently, if you haven't used the spare remote control key in a while, the transmitter dies on you.

Anyway, I had enough wits about me to try to get a new battery. (Didn't work.) Call my sister who lives in the same apartment building as my old apartment (Offered to drive me to Somerville and sleep over so that I could feed my cat). And try the manual key without the remote control. (Tripped the alarm).

After saying farewell to my neighbors with three trips of the car alarm at 1 a.m., we finally figured out how to start my car with the manual key. I was able to go to the dealer the next day and get a new transmitter. And that, my friends, was my last day in Quincy.

Stay tuned next post for the Pros of the Big Move and why, after all this, I'm psyched that I made it!

Strip T's to the rescue: Part 2

There we were, the Strip T's staff and I waiting for Mr. Could-Be-Sloth to walk through the door. I had just received a text saying "Where are you? Inside." Jonathan and I looked quizzically at each other. Strip T's is not that big of a place. It's essentially the size of a D'Angelos. (Side note: When (and notice I say "when", not "if) you go to Strip T's, take a trip to the bathroom. You will feel like you just came down the beanstalk to wreak havoc on peasants. It's an experience.)

Making me even more nervous was the fact that, during one of our texting conversations, Mr. Could-Be-Sloth had told me that I was only the second person that he's met online to date. The first...he arrived at their meeting place, saw her, and in his words, "ran like a cheetah." I almost broke the date off when he told me that story, but he explained that it had nothing to do with her looks, he just freaked out, and he called her later to apologize. Whether or not his version is true, I don't know, but a free meal at Strip T's was at stake, and I didn't really want to give that up, so I gave him the benefit of the yay-I-get-food doubt.

As Jonathan and I scanned the room, Jonathan asked what Mr. Could-Be-Sloth looked like. I told him that all I knew was that he was bald, with a goatee, and Middle Eastern. Jonathan, then became busy with restaurant stuff, such as like, you know, running it, so I decided to take a look outside. I looked to my right, down the sidewalk, and saw a gorgeous bald, bearded man round the corner. He glanced at me and smiled....and then started walking in the other direction. For a split second, I thought "cheetahs run faster than that," but quickly realized that that wasn't the person I was waiting for.

I looked to my left and a tiny man was walking toward me. He wasn't bald (I'm not sure where I got that). He had a very nice smile. And he came up and hugged me hello. So I assumed that it was Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, who while attractive, wasn't really my type physically. However, not one to judge a kindle fire by its electronic title page, I was still looking forward to getting to know him because he seemed like a very sweet guy. As far as the confusion over his text saying that he was in the restaurant, here is where punctuation is important, guys. Without it, your message becomes, "where are you. inside" instead of "where are you? Inside?"

My Waiter Crush sat us at what Strip T's calls, the "Mafia Table". It's a corner table that faces the entire dining room and it's where I expect I'll receive my business if I ever have any and happen to be eating there.

I was trying not to feel self-concious that, sitting down, we looked like Jack Sprat and his wife, but even at 5'5", I felt as though I was towering over him...even though he insists to this day that he's 5'7". Waiter Crush took our drink order and left to grab them.

I turned to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth and said, "so nice to finally meet you! How was your day today?" "My day was good," he responded.  *Silence*

"What is it that you do for work?" I asked. "Operations," he responded. *Silence*

"What kind of business does your company do?" I asked. "Hospitality," he responded. *Silence*

"Oh cool, that's what my company does too!" I said, hoping that this would spark up the conversation. "We run the laundry facilities in dorms and apartment buildings and hotels." I continued. "I see," he responded. *Silence*

Now, a few things were running through my mind. One, oh my GOD this is BRUTAL. Two, is the whole dinner going to be like this??? Three, is it too soon to sneeze and get the check? But, I thought maybe he's just nervous. Or it might be that he's not interested? So I gave him an out by saying, "if you're not hungry, I don't mind just grabbing a small plate and a drink or something." And in his longest response yet, he stated, "No, let's eat a meal." and grabbed the menu.

The conversation went on like that for our whole dinner. During the times when I was just tired of the responsibility of carrying on the conversation, I sat there with my elbows on the table, and my chin in my hands, in classic boredom pose, like a kid who's been told she can't have dessert until she finishes her peas. I kept catching the eye of Waiter Crush and sending him silent "help me" signals, which I could tell he understood. But, with f-ing delicious food also comes painstaking care, meaning I wouldn't be seeing our entrees soon enough and there was nothing he could do.

Our food did come out soon after though, and my food was ten times more interesting than my date! The amazing thing about Strip T's is they basically go to the farm and get the ingredients for the menu which changes daily. I'm not being sarcastic...they literally go to the farm and get ingredients. They cure their own meat. They make their own vinegar. The flour for their bread and pasta is milled the day before. So, not only is the food interesting and cooked perfectly, but it's practically the best quality you can ask for.

That night, I ordered for Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, whose only instruction was "I like spicy," which I conveyed to Waiter Crush who suggested that he have the roasted skate wing, with spicy 'nduja sausage, kale, potato and leeks. Mr. Could-Be-Sloth ok'ed that with an "ok". Me, on the other hand, I knew exactly what I wanted. Oysters Ouefs Brouilles, and the Anne Fish Tautog with lobster sauce, fiddleheads and home fries. And in a down-to-the wire decision, encouraged by Waiter Crush, I got the seared pork belly small plate. Yet another reason that I love Strip T's...whenever I'm on the fence about ordering something, the waiters always give me a "no big deal" go ahead, which makes me feel like I'm not being gluttonous, just appreciative of what's on the menu.

Anyway, back to my disaster date: I still took the time to enjoy my food and wine, but once that was gone, I wanted to be!! I excused myself to go to the restroom, and on my way back from Lilli-pot, I went by Jonathan who asked, "Are you sneezing?" To which, I responded, "God, yes." Over comes Waiter Crush, who again subtlely steered us in the right direction by saying, "You guys are too full for dessert?" Before Mr. Could-Be-Sloth could answer with a one-word "no" response, I said, "Yeah, I'm stuffed."
Waiter Crush: Just the check, then.
Me: Yep.

Once Waiter Crush dropped the check off, I offered to pay, and Mr. Could-Be-Sloth took the billfold and said that it was on him (which was nice), and then he proceeded to put it on the bench next to him... So, we sat there in silence for another ten minutes (or was it a year? hard to tell), while Waiter Crush kept glancing at the table, trying to see if he could help me make my escape by speeding along the payment process.

Finally, (and I literally breathed an audible sigh of relief) Mr. Could-Be-Sloth slipped his card out of his wallet and into the billfold and Waiter Crush took it, bringing it back processed a second later. I said goodbye to all and Mr. Could-Be-Sloth walked me to my car where I gave him a hug. He told me to text when I got home and I said ok. When I got into my car, I saw a text from Jonathan, "At least the food was free. :)"

I texted Mr. Could-Be-Sloth when I arrived home and he asked, "Be honest. What did you think?" And I replied, "It started out good! I just thought that there were a lot of awkward silences," thinking that there's no way he could disagree. He responded, "I didn't think they were awkward, but oh well." This leads me to question my own dating style, and I would love it if you'd let me know what you think. To me, if you're having silences on the first date, they're prima facie awkward. You should have plenty to say when you don't know anything about each other. The silences come after you've been together for a while, then it becomes a comfortable silence.

Anyway, I haven't heard from Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, so I think he realized that it wasn't a match. But, the silver lining around my dinner plate...man, those oysters and that pork belly were F-ing Delicious.*

*I'm trying to get Strip T's to adopt that as their slogan. I'm not optimistic.

Strip T's to the Rescue: Part 1

First of all, I just want to mention that I posted twice in a week a couple of weeks ago, and was really excited to get momentum back. And then the Boston Marathon bombing happened. As you know, Boston is my hometown, and I really struggled with what I would say on my next post. I knew that I had to say SOMETHING, but this is supposed to be a humor blog. So, I kept procrastinating, trying to figure out a way to reconcile what I was feeling with the usual tone of this blog. Because I was just too sad.

But, then it dawned on me: it's important to laugh! It doesn't take away from remembering what happened or mourning the loss of such young and vibrant lives. It strengthens our resolve to carry on and show these horrible people that their actions do not affect us, our democracy, or our freedom to speak.  I don't have any sniper training and I hate guns and violence, so I can't root out the bastards. And while the spy life looks glamorous, I'm way too much of a blabbermouth to work for counterintelligence. ("Melly, what do you do for work?" "I'm a spy...uh, I mean, a Coors light promo girl, obv.") But, betcha by golly, wow, I can make people laugh (I hope). So, I said to myself, you write that blog about awful men buying you delicious food. And you do it for AMERICA!!! And so, without further ado:

Let's talk about online dating profiles and pictures. Typically, I skip over the profiles that don't have any pictures. I immediately think they're either married or look like Sloth.

FYI, that's true hardly ever. One of the best looking men that I've ever dated didn't have a picture on his dating profile simply because he was a professor, and he didn't want to encounter any of his students. And a gorgeous female friend of mine didn't have her profile picture up because she felt like she was always being judged on her looks and she wanted someone to date her because she was intelligent and kind. But, that's where my mind goes when I'm contacted by a guy who has no picture.

Imagine my skepticism when I received a message via match that stated that we seemed to have a lot in common and that he'd like to take me out, but he had one dealbreaker: I couldn't ask for a picture because he wouldn't send it to me. According to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, he would much rather just meet for dinner or drinks in person. Initially, I thought that was a bit weird, but after a few messages back and forth that seemed to go ok, I gave him my number so that we could text as it's easier. At first, I wasn't sure if we were a match, but he did grow on me as the week went on. He finally asked if I would meet him for dinner, and he suggested that we go to Strip T's in Watertown

Now, here's a little background on Strip T's. It's f-ing delicious and has topped pretty much every "Best of Boston" list since it opened. So, I knew that he had good taste in restaurants. On the other hand, the general manager, Jonathan, is also an old friend who I've known forever. I'm talking we carpooled to Hebrew school together when we were kids. And, I had JUST been to Strip T's the week before for dinner with Andrea and her husband, where we had eaten them out of building and restaurant. I ultimately decided though that, even with the danger of bringing a man who could look like Sloth to my Hebrew school carpool-mate's restaurant and the danger of becoming known by the staff as a foodie groupie, it was a good place to go because as to first point, it's f-ing delicious.

Strip T's is very hard to get into without a reservation. So, I had mentioned to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth that he should make one. On Sunday, the night before our date, I received a text, "Were you serious about a reservation? How busy could it be on a Monday?" I'm not sure why this irritated me as much as it did. I think sometimes I have a tendency to be too hard on people when they don't do as I say. But that's only because I'm a genius and always right.

Luckily I could shoot a quick text to Jonathan and ask if he had any openings for a table for two for Monday night. In a text dripping with wisecrack (or so I imagine), J responded, "You mean for your date?"

Me: Yes! He didn't believe me when I said we prob needed one.
J: Well, make sure he pays.

When I arrived the next night (early as always so that I could get settled in before the fun started), I walked in to meet Jonathan at the door. Here's another reason that Strip T's is so awesome. Not only do they have delicious food, but Jonathan had provided the staff with instructions that I was on a blind first date, so that if I looked like I wasn't having a good time, they needed to get me the hell outta there fast. That's above and beyond typical restaurant service, you have to agree.

So, here we are at the "big reveal", let's run down the reasons that I was nervous about this date:

1.) My date could look like Sloth
2.) He never made a reservation, so seemed like kind of a slacker.
3.) I have a crush on the Strip T's waiter that was going to be serving us. So, I was nervous about making a fool of myself by continuously mentioning that this was a "first" date and a "blind" date, in order to give the appearance that I was still available.

As I stood there with Jonathan and the staff, and as we all ran down the plan ("People, if I sneeze, it means it's a total disaster and come over with the check even if there's still food left. No veal left behind! I will box it up!"), I got a text from Mr. Could Be Sloth..."Where are you? I'm inside".

Was Mr. Could-Be-Sloth actually Sloth? Did he even show up?? Did the unbelievably well thought-out and sophisticated sneezing plan work? Tune in next post and see!

Crazy Pete two-ups Mr. Writer (A Mini-Story)

You may remember that one time I was so upset with one of my guys that it prompted me to create a flow chart. You may be surprised to find out that he's still on the fringe of my life. We talk every once in a while and see each other every so often. Stacy has changed his name from Mr. Writer to Mr. Personality, which I think suits him better for sarcasm's sake, as he's quite reserved when you meet him. She baptized him after we ran into him at the airport one day when we were returning from Los Angeles and he was flying out.

Anyway, while drinking at Second Glass's Wine Riot last weekend, I received this text:

The text took me by surprise as we had just been talking the week before about my moving to his neighborhood next month and his feeling that I was "invading his territory". So, it was out of the sky blue. Right away*, I took the normal action and obviously posted it to facebook so that my friends could see it.

Not to be outdone, three minutes later, I received this text from Crazy Pete:

 

 

*It took thirty minutes to show everyone that I was with, and be taught how to make a screenshot on my iphone.



 



 

A day of Reckless Abandon and Abandonment at Fenway Park

First off, let me apologize for not writing as often as I should be! There are no excuses except for the fact that I am extremely lazy.

Monday, I partook in the tradition of attending Opening Day at Fenway Park. It was a beautiful day and the Red Sox defeated the Orioles 3-1. I clapped and pumped my fist and drank a lot of beer. Ticket sales at Fenway Park have declined this year, and the owners have had a tougher time than the previous few years of getting the fans in the seats. Blame the team's poor performance of last summer. Blame the ridiculous ticket prices. Blame the fact that last season wasn't the same without yelling "Yoooooooouk" and we had to settle for just a raucous rendition of Sweet Caroline. There are many reasons I'm sure. But, a few weeks ago, as a lure back to Fenway, the organization issued a press release that they would be selling beer for $5.00 in April! Much less than the $8.75 that we normally have to pay! And my sister, Stacy and I were stoked!! Until we got there. Those villains in the front office had foiled us again!

We went up to the beer counter and were surprised when the woman pouring asked us if we wanted "small" or "tall". "Tall", we replied, of course. We were confused when she handed us a regular-old-12-oz. cup of beer. Stacy whispered to me, "If this is a tall, how small is a small?" We learned soon after that it was very small when the guy in front of us came back to his seat with one. The $5.00 beer looked to be about half the size...which really isn't as big of a "deal" as I was expecting. So small, that my friend cleverly coined the phrase "The Pedroia Pilsner".




Despite this trickery by the evil geniuses at Fenway Park, people seemed to be buying up a lot of the $5.00 beer. In fact, (maybe as a result of a game that started one hour later than usual), the people sitting around us were trashed. The woman in the seat next to me passed out around the sixth inning. And from that point on, I kept one eye on the game and one on her as her friend tried to shove peanuts into her mouth and make it look like she was still awake.

But no one compared to the couple that was sitting in front of us. For reasons that will become clear, I'll refer to them as Mad Hater and Absentee Father. From the first pitch of the game, these two caught my attention. It wasn't just the fact that they were completely sauced and we still had nine innings to go. It was because of their gigantic age difference and that they introduced themselves as father and daughter, but were a bit too Mackenzie and John Phillips for my taste. Mad Hater was blond and looked as though her expression froze while duck-facing. Absentee Father was swaying in his seat and kept creeping closer and closer to the unlucky 25-year old sitting next to him.

Right around the fourth, I got up for a beer refill. When I hit the beer line, imagine my surprise to find that the kegs were tapped out. Apparently, Red Sox fans can consume more Dixie-sized beers than the front office was expecting! As a result, the lines for the remaining beer counters were ridiculous. Didn't really stop me from standing in one though...

Meanwhile, back at my seat, Mad Hater had noticed that her dad-boyfriend's new reluctant buddy, the unlucky 25-year old, was wearing a Bruins jersey underneath his Red Sox one. So, she asked him about it. Not sensing the trap, Reluctant Buddy told her that he was going to the Bruins game after the baseball game. For some inexplicable reason, this made Mad Hater mad. She began to scream, "You like the BRUINS??? HOW could you like the BRUINS?? What is WRONG with you???" If she had been joking, it would have been ok...odd, but still ok. But, she honestly seemed livid that this guy, a fan of one Boston team, would DARE to be a fan of another Boston team. I missed all of this, but when I returned to my seat, I returned to an atmosphere of uncomfortable silence and my sister filled me in on what had gone down.

Right around the time that I returned, Absentee Father earned his nickname by disappearing. I'm guessing that this was around the fifth inning. A couple of innings later, Mad Hater got up. I thought that they were gone for good. But sometime in the ninth, Mad Hater returned. I overheard her say to the Reluctant Buddy, "He never came back????"--surprised that Absentee Father had clearly abandoned her (which is another tell-tale sign that he's probably not really her father). She called his cell phone a few times and he didn't answer. She dropped her sunglasses in the row in front of her and had an awesome struggle trying to get them back. I began to feel sorry for her until she flipped us all off. And with a duck-faced huff, she got up and left.

I'll never know if Mad Hater found her "dad". I like to think of them passed out together underneath a disability ramp in the bowels of Fenway Park, their middle fingers permanently stuck up in the air, serving as a reminder to all of us to drink responsibly--even if it's only Dixie-sized beer.

Port Chuck's fans Hit Higher Decibel than Bieber's

Did you know that soap opera stars like to sing 80's monster hits? Did you know that middle-aged women like to shed their sweatpants, don shiny sequined shirts, and dance and scream to a level rivaling any tween with Bieber Fever? Did you know that it's possible to sing Whitesnake's Here I Go Again badly? I learned all of these things and more at the Port Chuck concert last Friday night at the Wilbur Theatre.

Port Chuck is made up of four actors from General Hospital: Steve Burton, Scott Reeves, Brandon Barash, and Bradford Anderson. Basically, they travel across the country with a backup band and sing rock covers. When my sister, Stacy, asked me to go, I said yes immediately. I just couldn't pass up a chance to see this phenomenon in person. Plus, Steve Burton is super hot.

The band members came out first. They had a guitarist, bass player, keyboardist and a drummer. I quickly exclaimed to my sister, "Oh awesome, they have a female keyboardist!" However, when the stage lights came on, I realized that it was a just a guy who should rethink his haircut. The Soap Guys came out next. One by one. And the women screamed...loudly.

The music started and the guys lined up in front of the stage with four stand-up microphones. They sang (awkwardly) and danced (badly). It was reminiscent of the time when I watched some Theta Delta Chi brothers sing karaoke at one of their house parties. They would sing into the mikes, and during the breaks in lyrics, while the music played, they'd look awkwardly at each other and sorta hop around the stage. I think that this all could be fixed by hiring a choreographer. So, I'm surprised that after they've been touring for a few years now, they haven't done that. To add to the weirdness, at times, it was like the audience wasn't really there. Every once in a while, they would notice the screaming and blow a kiss or do something that induced more screaming. They sang such hits as the Outfield's Your Love, Springsteen's Born to Run, and more I'm sure...except I left early, so I couldn't tell you about them.

During the show, I noticed a few things. Scott Reeves seemed like he was high on something, and I don't think it was "life". Audience members seem to get up and go to the bathroom during country songs. Also, it is possible for bouncers and security at a rock concert to look even more bored than I originally thought they could.

I have to say that the sheer hilarity of it all did make it pretty fun to watch. My only disappointment is that Steve Burton kind of lost some of his hotness for me. I just can't handle it when people put their finger to their ear a la Christina Aguilera when they sing. I don't think that it does anything except make me laugh. He did it a few times. And I wish he hadn't. Because he's so pretty.

All in all, the next time they whisk through your town on their white motorcycles with the wind blowing through their luscious locks, you might want to check them out for the experience. Just lower your expectations in terms of performance and go into it much as you would a Harlequin romance novel.

Why I'm still single

Happy VD!!! (and that can stand for whatever you want it to...) In honor of VD, I decided to take a good, hard look at myself and answer the question that I often get asked, for better or worse, "Mel, why are you still single?" I think that it's a combination of things for a variety of reasons: character flaws, life choices, just plain dumb luck. But, I've compiled this list of the five major reasons, in my belief, that I haven't found Mr. Right-For-Me yet.

1.) I talk about computer games like they're real. I've realized something this week. I've been way too harsh on role-playing gamers who dress up like elves or fairies or whatever and have pretend battles in middle-school soccer fields. I do it, too! Well, not the pretend battle thing. But, after playing so many Nancy Drew computer games, I actually problem-solve like I'm Nancy Drew to figure things out now. And I think about Ned, and my best friends, Bess and George, and how much I miss them when I don't get to talk to them and...I digress. Bottom line is that I'm not that different from Eolain the Elder, or Jobias the Wizard, or Brian the Farmer or whatever.

2.) I start fights with people on okcupid. If it hasn't come across in my writing, I can be a bit sarcastic. And I also have a bad habit of not being able to let things go, as I've mentioned before. So, every once in a while I come across a dating profile and I can't help but write to that person and make some joke about why it sucks. For example, the other night, I came across a profile where the guy didn't have anything really to say about himself, but just had a bunch of links to youtube videos of awful music that he's made. Of course, this prompted me to send him a message that said, "Is this your dating profile or your music promotion page? Tough to say." To which I received a pretty nasty response, too juvenile to repeat here. Admittedly, I probably deserved a nasty response. But, why can't you just promote your horrible music on bandcamp or something and leave us daters alone? Anyway, if I stop spending my time instigating internet arguments, I may be able to find the right person.

3.) I have a Seinfeld and/or Saved by the Bell reference for any given situation. At a speed dating event recently, I had a conversation kinda like this:

Date: So, we only have 8 minutes! I have a very important question. What's your favorite cookie?

Me: Oh! I have to say chocolate chip. What's yours?

Date: I'm partial to the black and white.

Me: (thinking that he's bringing this up to see if we connect over Seinfeld) Aren't you worried about ruining your vomit streak?

Date: (with a blank stare) ...

Me: (thinking that I may be wrong) You know. Seinfeld? 'How's your stomach?' 'I've got David Duke and Farrakhan down there.'?

Date: (looking at me as if I had gotten his number from an AIDS walk list) Oh. I don't watch Seinfeld.

Me: ...oh. (muttering under my breath) where is that guy with the whistle...

That was the first time that I started to think that maybe it was me? As Elaine says, "Is it possible I'm not as attractive as I think I am?"

4.) I hang out a lot one-on-one with straight-acting gay men. One of my very best friends happens to be male and happens to be gay. However, unless you have extremely attuned gaydar, you wouldn't know that he was gay unless you had an extensive conversation with him, in which he brings up how many guys he's banged. We do a lot of things together. Go to concerts. Go out to dinner. Go to Red Sox games. And we see a lot of friendly and cute men...and I'm beginning to think that these friendly and cute men may mistake us for a couple. The next time we go out, I may ask my BF (dammit, best friend, not boyfriend!) to wear hot pants and a tank top, so that there's no room for error.

5.) I denounced an entire religion for ten years based on a very small sample size. I would say about 77% of the words that come out of my mother's mouth are either, "wish", "settle", "down", "nice", "Jewish", or "boy". She wanted me to go to college, so that I could be independent. But, I think that she secretly was hoping I would end up with both a BA and a MRS degree. And so, she did everything within her power to push me toward Brandeis where all her dreams would come true. However, I had been to our temple. I had the mistaken view that all Jewish men were "not my type". And I fell in love with Tufts during a campus visit and went there instead (although Tufts and Brandeis probably aren't that far apart in the "we have Jews" competition). I never wanted to date a Jewish guy. I avoided the Hillel Center. I shunned any "Jewish singles" events that happened during college and throughout my 20's. And then I learned...that Gabe Kapler existed:

Melly J., Reality TV Star!! Extra, Part 3

So, there I was, sitting at the Brahmin, waiting for speed dating to start. The Drunkie's recent outburst made me begin to question what I was actually doing there. However, it did seem to break the tension in the room. We began to laugh at the whole situation and how absurd it was. I goofy-smiled back at Goofy Smile guy. The guys, armed with rum-soaked courage, began to mingle amongst the ladies and sit across from us. We all determined that the Drunkie's tantrum was her own show for the cameras, the joke being on her because they weren't actually on yet. I was praying that neither Townie 1 nor Townie 2 would move their seats over to my table, and my prayers were answered as they were too involved in calling out for more shots and high-fiving each other.

By this point, I was exhausted. It was now coming up to 8:15 p.m. and I was getting sleepy and tired of just sitting around. The only thing stopping me from curling up on the booth bench and taking a nap was a vision of the remnants of vomit and sweat lurking on the vinyl.

And then, a tall, handsome man walked in. He was dressed impeccably. He flashed a killer smile at me as he walked by. He clearly knew the two bartenders, as they said hi to him when he arrived, and he walked over to say hello to them. I couldn't tell if he was there for the speed-dating event, or just to hang out. After speaking with the bartenders for a couple of minutes, he came back over and looked at the food spread (kept minimal so as not to soak up our alcohol content for the show). Then, he came over and sat next to me and said, "Hi, I'm Dre". Dre obviously had also been drinking, and when I questioned him about it, he admitted that he had been to the Bruins game earlier that day and had consumed large amounts of tequila since then.

Dre was charming and handsome, but I very quickly realized that he was the African American equivalent of Crazy Pete. He was very open about sharing facts such as "the number of women I've banged", "how many drinks I've had today", and "the amount of money I've dropped".  As I find Crazy Pete-like antics endearing, this was not a complete turnoff for me and I found it more amusing than anything. But, I definitely didn't see any romance in our future.

Since Black Crazy Pete was so drunk in public, I assumed that he was in his 20's. I asked him how old he was and was shocked when he said 41. I asked what he did for work, and he told me that he was a bartender. Imagine my surprise, as the night went on and he admitted that he had gone to Brown. SCREEECH! Back it up. "Why on earth would you waste $250,000 to go to Brown and become a bartender. You can get a college degree anywhere and become a bartender." His answer: Full Academic Scholarship.

Ok, so Black Crazy Pete was growing on me. I hate to think that it was because I realized that he was smart, but I think that's what it was. I dig smart guys. However, I do not dig playboys, and it was clear that that's exactly what he was. He kept telling me that I seemed "proper" and "rigid". That I should give him a shot in the bedroom. He asked me hypothetically speaking, if I were his wife...he would need sex every night. Could I provide that? I get tired of talking to guys when it seems that all they want is in my pants, so after about an hour of speaking with Black Crazy Pete (It's now 9:15 pm, if you're keeping track), I finally yelled out to the Camera Guys that Be and said, "What time are we going to start this thing?" Sensing that I was very close to walking out and that a lot of the girls would be with me, the Camera Guys that Be all answered at once with remarks such as "Thank you so much for your patience." "We're almost all set here" "Just another couple of minutes."

But, you see, even though we actually did start a few minutes later, we were at an awkward impasse. We had all been talking to each other for about an hour and a half. Anything that we were going to learn in 8 minutes, we already knew. And as I mentioned before, the guys had been taking full advantage of the open bar (maybe from nervousness about their television debut), to the point where some were having issues forming coherent sentences and some focusing their eyes in one direction. To make matters worse, when the Date and Dash guy announced that we would be starting soon, Black Crazy Pete yelled out, "What if you've already found your soul mate?" and looked at me. And all the guys said, "awwww." All of the sudden, I was Slater at the Bachelor Auction after Jessi Spano threatened all the girls so that no one would bid on him. So, I finally admitted to myself what I had known all along...this was not going to be a successful speed dating experience.

We went through the motions of speed dating. I spoke with Goofy Smile guy who was weirded out by the whole night and everyone in the room. Lumberjack Flannel tried to fix me up with his friend. Stylish Tall Guy in Awesome Sweater was drunkenly rambling about Elvis and the South or something...I couldn't really follow it. And my last date of the night...Black Crazy Pete.

I ended up giving Black Crazy Pete my phone number, but as I made it quite clear that I don't jump into bed with random guys, I doubt that he will be calling. (It's been a week and a half and he hasn't yet). I did a little bit of googlegating and found out that not only is he a "bartender", he actually owns the bar that he tends at. It's a well known bar in Faneuil Hall and explains the Brown education (and subsequent MBA).

As I left the room, I passed Townie 1 who said, "Hey! I didn't get a chance to talk to you!" And I tossed an "Aw, shucks" over my shoulder.

The night wasn't a total loss however....the Date and Dash guy walked me out and said, "You're so nice. Thank you so much for putting up with all this. I also have a matchmaking business and I'd like to set you up with someone"...so I did get a date out of it, just not the way that I planned.

Boston's Finest premieres on Feb. 27 on TNT, and if you tune in, at some point in the series, you might catch a glimpse of me, scratching my nose or sitting on a bench or something equally exciting. Or, you never know, like Black Crazy Pete, Boston's Finest may leave me on the cutting room floor when they decide there's nothing they can work with.

Melly J., Reality TV Star!! Extra, Part 2

When we last left our heroine, she was sitting at Table Number 3 at the Brahmin, in front of the camera crew for TNT's Boston Finest, waiting for the speed date to begin. The event was supposed to start at 7:30. If you've never been to a speed dating event, here's what happens. The girls sit at a numbered table. Then, they put a guy at each table. You "date" for 8 minutes, someone blows the whistle and the guys all move down one table. At the end of the night, each person writes down who they were interested in, and if there's a match, the speed dating people exchange your information. It typically doesn't take more than an hour. I figured that I'd be home by 9:30 and in bed by ten.

Because I was there a bit early, I was able to sit back and peruse the "merchandise" as it walked in the door. A couple of the guys were cute and looked like really nice guys. There was Adorable Goofy Smile guy. Lumberjacky Guy in Flannel with Beard. Stylish Tall Guy in Awesome Sweater. I was looking forward to meeting them. As they walked in, they all assembled near the bar area across the room from us. The two groups, guys and girls, kept stealing glances at each other, but we weren't mingling or talking to each other. It was like an awkward middle school dance, except there were also five or six guys holding television cameras milling around.

I began a conversation with the girl sitting next to me. We made small talk. She asked if I knew anything about the show and we shared the knowledge that we each had (which wasn't much). As it was already 7:45, she asked if I had done speed dating before and if it usually started late. I told her that I had and it didn't. We surmised that they may be waiting for more people to show up before they start.

We were curious about who the girl was that they were filming. We hadn't seen the cameras pointed at anyone yet. We were also still a bit suspicious about why we were really there. The TV people had been a little too forthcoming with the information that we did have. All of the sudden, two blondes walked in the door. The first walked in with confidence and the camera guys seemed to jump to life, so I assumed that this was our TV star. She sat next to me at Table 4. My stomach flipped a little bit when I thought that I would definitely be in the camera shot the whole time if this was the girl. But, then, she leaned into me and said, "Are you the girl cop?" I realized very quickly by her breath that her confidence was all liquid and if she was asking me if I was the cop, then this couldn't be the girl.

I began to become more suspicious of what we were doing there. We had now been sitting around for a half-hour. This girl next to me was clearly wasted. The camera people were all sitting around and watching us. The guys were on one side of the room and the girls were seated at the other. Maybe this was some kind of weird psychological experiment? How long would we wait around for before we got fed up and stormed out? Would the genders ever start mingling together? What if there was an endless amount of alcohol? Just what would these crazy people do?? I mean, THAT sounded like a great reality show.

To add to my suspicion, at this point, two guys, who I will refer to as "Townie 1 and Townie 2" came in a few minutes later. When you think of the typical Boston guy persona, these are the guys that fit it. There was a "business casual" dress code for this event. They came in wearing ratty t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, all of which were three or four sizes too big. Townie 1 was the "mouth". He led the way and yelled, "Let's get this pah-ty stah-ted!"as he walked into the room. Townie 2 didn't say a word and stood next to him with a blank, empty look on his face.  Townie 1 and Townie 2 walked up to the bar, did a couple of shots and then ordered two jack and cokes and sat across from the Drunkie Next To Me and her friend.

At this point, we were coming up on 8:15. We had been sitting there for 45 minutes waiting for this to start. The girls were getting impatient. The guys were getting drunk. No one was saying a word and the only sound was the house music playing in the lounge.  Suddenly, the Drunkie Next To Me yelled at Townie 1, "How could you say something like that to me??? F*** you! F*** YOU!" and got up and marched to the door. She turned back to her friend, who was sitting there open-mouthed, and yelled, "Get my purse." The friend sat there stunned. "Get my F***-ING purse!!" she yelled one last time and stormed out. We all turned to the friend to see what she was going to do. The friend sheepishly and silently grabbed the purse on the bench and followed her out.

I turned to the girl on the other side of me and said, "There's definitely something fishy going on here." Was the Drunkie's tantrum all an act? Will we ever get to speed-date? Will any of the guys be sober enough to talk to? Tune in for Part 3...

Melly J., Reality TV Star!! Extra, Part 1

I received an e-mail from Date and Dash asking me if I wanted to attend a free speed-dating event. I saw "free" and immediately said yes. When they sent me the details of the event, I scanned through and my eyes stopped at one sentence: "This will be filmed for a television segment." WHAT?? I started to freak out a bit. This was taking an already stressful event and skydiving it parachute-less into a lion-surrounded, piranha-covered, anthrax-powdered, burning ring of fire. What if I was signing up for a reality show? What if it was like one of those shows where you think you'll be speed-dating, but then they offer you $1000 to eat an elephant testicle or something? I didn't want to look stupid(er).  I almost backed out. But, then I started to think...what if it's not any of that? What if it's actually Dateline or 20/20 or Good Morning America. And they're doing a segment on dating. And then they become so engaged by me after interviewing me and realize that the camera LOVES me so much, that they decide to turn it into a docu-series, starring me and I become an overnight sensation and end up trading witty banter with Ellen DeGeneres, and then some movie producer sees it and believes that he's looking at the next America's Sweetheart and I blow up and a year from now I'm accepting my Oscar. I decided that it was worth a shot.

I arrived at the The Brahmin and the Date and Dash guy met me at the door. He signed me in and then called over the television people. They took my picture, had me sign a release, and told me about what would be happening that night. Yes, it was a reality show. No, they didn't care about having me on it. It was called Boston's Finest, premiering on TNT next month, produced by Donnie Wahlberg, and it was following a female police officer in Boston who was "looking for love". The guys would all be miked and they would be the ones on the show, as they would be "dating" the girl that the show was focusing on. The girls would all be in the background. While I was a little bit disappointed that I may not get a shot at film success, I was a bit relieved as well. The potential for me to say something ridiculously dumb on national television was eliminated. It was up to the men for that.

When we went down the stairs into the lounge area, where the numbered tables were set up, they sat me down at number 3. And here is when my first suspicion about reality television was confirmed. They get you liquored up on purpose. They gave us all drink tickets. Typically drink tickets are good for beer or wine or cheap vodka only. Our drink tickets were good for anything behind the bar. A double of Johnnie Walker Blue? Sure, did you want that neat or on the rocks? Dom Perignon White Gold? I have some chilling right over here for you. Because the more you drink, the dumber you act, and the better television it makes.

Also, I had always suspected that reality television was scripted. I just didn't know HOW scripted! They do re-takes. If it doesn't come out the way they want it the first time, they film it again. The Date and Dash guy had to go through his "how we speed-date" speech twice and we all looked interested like he was saying it for the first time, both times. They even had the guys re-do their 8 minutes of dating a few times.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. The "reality" is that while this thing was supposed to start at 7:30, around 9:00, it still hadn't begun. The boys had been enjoying their drinks a little too much and were so hammered by this point, that I didn't even really want to talk to any of them. The atmosphere was awkward as we weren't sure whether we were supposed to mingle, or wait for the official speed date to start. So, we all just sat there looking at each other. When people get drunk and impatient and feel awkward, it breeds drama. Tune in for Part 2 to watch the drama unfold...

Chapter 7

I've mentioned that a male friend of mine has expressed that he would be concerned about dating me for fear that he'd end up in the blog. It's that sort of attitude that makes me hesitate before bringing it up when I'm dating someone new.

But, back when this was a book idea rather than a blog idea, I found myself talking about it on a first date. Looking back, I'm not quite sure what I saw in this guy in the first place. He was a smoker. He was unemployed. He had an affinity for Hawaiian shirts. And by "affinity", I mean that he wore one every single day. That's not hyperbole...he literally wore a Hawaiian shirt every single day. And so, for the sake of this story, let's call him Magnum, P.I.

Magnum, P.I. and I were discussing our hobbies, and I mentioned that I like to write and, at the time, was working on a book about unusual dating experiences. I stopped short in midsentence, thinking that this would not lead into good first date material. But, Magnum, P.I. surprised me by saying, "That is cool! Maybe I'll end up being in your book someday." To which I replied, "Yeah, who knows, you might be Chapter 7." And we laughed and laughed.

Magnum, P.I. was definitely fun to talk to, and he was very cute, so for the moment I was willing to look past the Hawaiian shirt, smoking, and lack of employment. We made our second date for trivia at his local bar.

The day that we were to get together for our second date, Magnum, P.I. called me on the phone. He told me that he had been doing a lot of thinking and had a really great idea that he would tell me all about when he saw me later that night. I couldn't wait to hear all about it.

I arrived first and grabbed a seat at the bar. Magnum, P.I. followed five minutes later, reeking of cigarettes, and wearing yet another Hawaiian shirt. After we made small talk for a little while, I said, "So, I can't wait to hear about this idea of yours!" Magnum, P.I. took a deep breath and said,

"I've been thinking a lot about your book idea. I think it's a good idea. In fact, I think it's a GREAT idea. I have a lot of marketing experience and I have a proposal for you. What if we wrote the book together? We could kind of do it as a dating 101 book. What to do and what not to do. And we could do it from 'his perspective' vs. 'her perspective. I think this book could be really big!"

Instead of thinking what I should have been thinking, which was "This guy has a lot of dreams for something that was my idea. And he might just be borderline delusional," I was thinking "Wow, this guy must really be interested in me if he's trying to make this into a long-term relationship of some sort. I think I'm interested in him too."

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I dated Magnum, P.I. I say that "I" dated him, rather than "we" dated because I think I was the only one of the two of us carrying through the dating action. Everytime we'd see each other, I would ask him more about his family, his life, his hopes, his dreams. And he would ask me more about whether I thought we should include a chapter on picking people up in random places, or just stick to what happens after you've gotten the date. It was when he  told me that he had bought  Dragon Voice Recognition software so that he could transcribe his writing ideas more quickly that I began to really think... He was awfully serious about this book thing. I mean, I had been "writing a book" for the past five years. But, within two weeks, he had actually gone out and gotten a voice recorder so that he could put his thoughts into words faster. And why did he talk about the book non-stop? Wasn't he curious about other things that were happening in my life? Was it possible that Magnum, P.I. was only into me for the book?

I began to pay closer attention to what was happening when we were together. And I noticed that he was all about the book all the time. Instead of e-mailing me, asking about my day, he was e-mailing the latest chapter that he had just finished. Whenever I called him, he would make me listen to endless rambling about past dates he had had and would ask whether I thought they were book-worthy. One day, I couldn't bear it anymore. I just came out and asked him. "Magnum," I said, "it seems to me that you're more interested in writing this book with me than actually dating me." He looked down for a second and then said, "Yeah, I think that's probably true. I'm just not ready for a relationship. I really enjoy my single life. I need to stay that way. And it's tough for me to feel an emotional connection with women. But, I think the book is a great idea for a business venture and I want to stay friends, so that I can write it with you."

I was floored. I half-joking when I said that it seemed that he was dating me for an unwritten book. But, here he was telling me that I was right on the money! He was actually keeping the relationship going for a book that I probably was never ever going to write because I'm too lazy. I told him that I would think about it, but the more that I did, I realized, I didn't want to share my book with him! One, he was a horrible writer. Two, as he was unemployed, he didn't really have anything else to do, and I think he saw this as a meal ticket. Three, that was weird. The writing was just a fun hobby that I picked up to entertain my friends. I was never thinking that I was going to cash in and become the next Carrie Bradshaw. And I began to think that Magnum, P.I. may not have been playing with a fully stringed ukulele.

So, the next day, I e-mailed this to Magnum, P.I.:

"I gave a lot of thought last night about continuing to co-author the book. To be honest, I'm just not ready to be in a committed business relationship. :( I really enjoy being a single writer and I think for now, I need to stay that way. It's just tough for me to feel an emotional connection to the book like you do. I hope you can understand and I really do want to still be friends."

Magnum, P.I. did not take this well. We went back and forth over e-mail for a while. "Melly, you're not being fair. You are crushing my lucrative profitable dreams." "Magnum, you can write your own book." After a couple of days, the pleading stopped. And besides one desperate attempt to connect with me on linkedin and become one of his seven connections, I haven't heard from him since.

And what do you know, he became "Chapter 7" after all.