- Monday, December 12th, 2011 -

Oh Winter, you beautifully cold bitch, or perhaps, you terribly handsome bastard. This past week, we’ve experienced one of the first decent cold streaks of the winter, so it seems only right to get some ice skating in. I haven’t been in years, I don’t think, so it should be fun.

Lucky for me, I’ve been set up on this little date. My companion for the night, Carly, is a former co-worker of my co-worker Phil’s girlfriend Monica. Pretty easy to figure that one out, right? Let’s break it down again!

I work with Phil. Phil’s girlfriend is Monica. Monica used to work with Carly. Monica reached out to Carly to set up this date. Got it? Fabulous.

Carly and I emailed back and forth last week and exchanged a few text messages yesterday.  She’s warned me that she might fall on her “tush” and now I’m a tad worried that I am going out with someone who might be a bit too young for me. “Tush” is just such a silly, childish word.

Can you imagine if a woman ever whispered to you, while having sex, “put it in my tush?”

I’d die from laughing. I would literally die.

As I walk to Bryant Park, I already suspect that there might be some minor confusion in meeting up. I told her to meet at the Western entrance of the park and specified the corner of 40th St & 6th Ave. As it turns out, those are two different locations. The western entrance to Bryant Park is at 41st & 6th. I bet most people don’t really worry about this kind of thing, but if I’ve screwed up someone else’s logistics, it stressed me out.

I wait for Carly on the corner since I figure this is the direction she’ll be coming from. If she is going to meet me at the entrance, she’ll have to walk by me here first. So, I wait.

Okay. It’s 7PM, our official meeting time, and I don’t see Carly yet. Maybe she’s at the entrance. I walk up to 41st and search the large, sprawling staircase on the edge of the park. She’s not here, but I can wait someplace conspicuous. I stand in the middle of the stairs and text her to tell her where I am. As my eyes scan the area again, Carly appears. She hasn’t even received my text yet.

As soon as she greets me, I can see how very bubbly and immediately friendly Carly is. I love it. This will be a good date, I can already tell.

So yeah, check this place out! The miserably branded Citi Pond at Bryant Park! I haven’t actually been down here since winter began but there are a number of little “Holiday Shops” set up all around, a dining area, a bar, and the ice skating rink. It’s really cute. She’s been here before and assures me that everything the little shops sell is crap. Nevertheless, I’d probably be willing to pay too much money for the junk here. It’s all about the charm.

As we walk through the Winter village, I get my first introduction to Carly, learning some basic information about her. We review our loose connection to each other through Monica and Phil, what exactly she does for work at Macy’s, and inexactly what I do for work at Eze Castle. It sounds like she has one of those jobs that she’s been in for too long and maybe it’s time to look for something else, but that describes most everyone I know, so maybe it doesn’t say much about her specifically. I can certainly relate.

We walk around the rink, by the enormous Christmas tree, and decide to do full lap before we actually lace up to skate. She asks me about the project quite a bit - what would compel me to do it, if finding dates is hard, and questions such as those. We also talk about living in New York and what we enjoy about it. It soon becomes clear that this isn’t the innocent “tush” girl I thought she might be. Carly likes to party and even injured herself this past Halloween in what might have been an alcohol related incident. She swears just as much as I do, so I know I’m in good company. I wonder where the hell that “tush” comment might have come from.

Eventually, we wrap back around to the rink entrance and it’s time to get our skate on. Carly is understandably nervous - she hasn’t been skating in years. I try to figure out for myself how long it’s been. The last time I was on ice skates was the spring break of my Freshman year of college, which was 2005, so it’s been a little over six and a half years. That’s not terrible, I suppose. Definitely pretty bad though.

We enter the lobby area, on the south side of the rink, and are directed towards the skate rental counter. I pay for our skates, in a sign of good faith, and Carly thanks me. Skates in hands, we sit down to lace up our blades. I’m somewhat anal about certain things, like boot laces, so Carly gets her skates on well before me and as I tie the knot of my first skate, she asks if I need any help. No, I assure her, I am just fine. I may be slow, but I’ve got this, trust me.

To our feet we go! Oh man. If you haven’t walked on skates for years and years, it’s an interesting sensation. I’m not sure if sensation is the right word, but you totally know what I’m saying.

It’s kind of nerve-racking, stepping onto the ice. I’m assuming that I’ll be okay with this whole skating thing, but then again, I might fall flat on my ass. And what if Carly can’t handle herself? I certainly don’t know that I’m good enough to support another person. We hit the ice devoid of confidence.

As I enter the rink and glide the first few feet, my body remembers what ice skating feels like. The first steps (are they really steps?) are tedious but successful. Carly is doing just as well. This is great. We make our first loop around the rink without any hitches. Look at us! We’re doing it, mom!  We’re like the big kids!!! Really though, this is a huge relief.

At the very least, we’ll survive the physical challenge part of the date. All we have to worry about now is the date part of the date.

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- Saturday, December 10th, 2011 -

I meet Emma inside of the 23rd Street entrance to New York City’s own amusement park of Italian food and drink, Eataly. I haven’t seen her since January, at the same party I met Soul Mate, almost a year ago now. She catches me by by surprise, arriving from the interior of Eataly and exclaiming, “Evan!” I give her a big hug and ask how she’s doing.

Emma is from my home town of Winchester, MA. We knew each other in high school and then we both lived back home for a little while after graduation. I’ve ended up at her house a couple times over the years, and we see each other at mutual friends’ gatherings, but we’re not exactly close friends ourselves.

When I first put the OHD site online, Emma emailed me to tell me what a great idea she thought it was and since I knew she was cool and cute, I asked her out right then. It took a long time for me to plan something with her, but I needed a date this weekend and it all seems to have worked out.

SO…what do we want to make?  Something Italian, I assume, since we’ve decided to meet at Eataly. I suppose we don’t have to make something Italian, but it is what I’m most comfortable cooking. Emma says that it is up to me. I’m in charge of this date, so I have to make the tough decisions about what we’re eating.

Given a decision to make, I do what I normally do and delay it further. I suggest walking around and checking out the scenery since I’ve never been here.

Emma, on the other hand, was here just two days prior, enjoying a “final breakup” with her now, totally official ex-boyfriend. Well, shit. I tell her I’m sorry to hear it and ask if she would prefer to go someplace else, but she says that it’s fine. I hope that’s the case; I feel bad otherwise.

As we pass through the circular wine bar at the center of the market, Emma tells me that her friends have been here and they like this place. It’s certainly bopping right now with jovial crowds gathered around each of the tables and various counters. We fight our way through the masses, like tourists in a swarmed piazza, and make it to the fresh pasta counter. We pass it by, but I know full well that we’ll be returning. I want to see what else this place has to offer.

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- Wednesday, December 7th, 2011 -

We agreed to meet at the restaurant, Le Souk Harem, which I’ve read mixed things about online, but upon arrival, it seems decently cool. Since I am a bit early, I grab a seat at the diminutive downstairs bar. 

The bartender, a young guy who couldn’t be older than 23, asks me if I’m here for a date. I tell him that I am and he asks if I’m nervous. I am not, and I explain that I go on a lot of dates for this project I am working on. I hand him my OHD card (I have OHD business cards).

“No shit!” he exclaims, and proceeds to tell me that he also goes on a lot of dates, but not like this. He’s an NYU student, so his dating life is understandably different. 

Within a minute or two, it’s apparent that I’ve found myself a Chatty Kathy.

“Hey man, have you found that a lot of New York girls are whores?” he asks in a way that suggests this as fact. 

“No. I don’t think that’s what they are. But I get why you might say that. I think they know what they want and sometimes what they want is sex, so they go out and get it. But they’re not whores,” I answer.

“I don’t know man. There’s a lot of whores,” he says, not accepting my rebuttal.

He continues on to ask how I get my dates and more importantly, what percentage of the women sleep with me. I tell him that I get them every which way - online, friends, set ups, random women, etc.

I roughly run the math in my head and tell him that thus far in the project, a little under a quarter of the women have slept with me.

“See! Whores,” he says.

I ignore his persistent ignorance and as I play with my phone, thinking to myself that I should really tell him off. Yes, a lot of women in New York will have sex with men they don’t necessarily know very well, but it has always struck me as a matter of confidence. I can’t think of one situation when a woman has slept with me out of some kind need for validation or money. I think that’s how I’d define a whore. Even then, I’m not in the business of condemning anyone.

I don’t think I’ve ever really known a whore. It’s possible I have, but mostly, I know women who want to have sex and aren’t totally fucked by society’s misogyny to really give a shit.

Of course though, I don’t lay into him, because as much as I can write about it on my blog, I don’t have the balls to stand up for women when it’s most important - in real life. 

Maybe I’m not giving myself enough credit. Maybe this shit head just isn’t worth the energy right now.

I am glad to end the conversation as Kira walks in. I greet her at the door and we are shown upstairs to a large room, which is nearly empty. Despite the scarcity of patrons on a Wednesday night, it’s a cool space, which looks like it could be fun. There is a single cushioned bench stretching along the lengthy wall, with small tables and low chairs spaced out every few feet. I feel like a child sitting at the stunted table, with my knees hitting its edges, but at least it provides the first laughter of the night.

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Hey y’all. I’ve had a crazy last week, but I am working on getting the next post up. I haven’t gone anywhere!