strawberries and chocolate, hold the awkward.

Food and Chaime go together like ice cream and mustard- most people will recoil and cringe, but chances are you're going to meet someone who enjoys it just as much as you do and you'll both live happily ever after in fairy tale land. Until then, however, I particularly enjoy dates that do not involve food because it lessens my chances to embarrass myself through a combination of food choices and eating habits.

Almost a year ago I went on a date with someone we'll nickname "Tall Guy" (or TG for short, because he was 6'5''), and from the very beginning it was doomed. When we met, he had to practically carry my inebriated self down to the BART station and make sure I didn't throw up or fall asleep, or miss my train. The second date we went to a nice Moroccan restaurant my friend Kiki had taken me to before, and one of the waiters came up and made conspicuous winks, thumbs up-ed our dinner and told us he was going to dim the lights to "set the mood." The second date, we went to a crappy bar in the Mission and an amazing mexican place for a late night soak-up-the-alcohol snack. It was during this excursion that, with my mouth open, I exclaimed how delicious the burrito was and food kept falling out of my mouth. I am so classy.

The icing on the cake, though, would have to be the time we went to a very high end restaurant called Top of the Mark in Nob Hill. A beautiful hotel with a gorgeous view overlooking the city on a clear night is the perfect way to set the tone for the rest of the evening. Well, that's what it's intended to do.

The night started, as all bad dates do, on a terrible note. My boss' boss called me at 5:45 to tell me that the printers in every other office in the Bay Area have all simultaneously broken down, and we had a major conference the next day and needed to print things out. Of course, I was also the only one left in the office, and there were two reports I had to print out (10 and 12 pages apiece, respectively), 250 copies of one, 350 of another. For the next two hours I tirelessly ran around the office trying to speed the process up; one printer even kept breaking down. "Maybe we should plan this for another night...", he said. "NO! I mean...no it's okay, I'm looking forward to it. I just want to make sure my company knows that I'm dedicated to my job so that I don't get fired randomly."

Somehow I caught a ride to the BART station with one of my coworkers who always stays late, and frantically ran up the stairs, bought my ticket, and nearly killed myself running down the stairs as well. I can't remember, but I think I missed that train, too. Once arriving at the Powell Street Station, I could tell that the one day I forgot to wear deodorant was a bad idea. Also, there are about a million exits, I couldn't navigate myself out of a box if my life depended on it, and total time traveling and working I ended up being 3 1/2 hours late to my date.

Forgiveness aside, we catch a cab to the hotel and take the long flight up the elevator to the top. Upon arrival I see that the general manager of Top of the Mark is an old boss of mine, whom I developed a lovely aquantianceship with during my short tenure at my ex place of business. When we sat down at a table with a gorgeous view, we ordered our drinks (on the house, courtesy of my wonderful ex boss) and got started with the evening.

Not changing the subject, but during this particular period in my life, I was under heavy amounts of stress and thus stopped eating as a result. I lost 15 pounds and would drink myself under the table, frequently passing out in bar bathrooms and vomiting all over the place. I'm not going to lie when I say I'm a tad ashamed at my behavior, but when you let your exboyfriend take the car that you paid for, was in your name, out of the goodness of your heart because he threatened to hurt himself everytime you tried taking it away from him, as long as the deal remained that he would drive you to and from work everyday, then chances are you're going to develop some kind of unhealthy addiction. Mine was alcoholism combined with accidental anorexia. It's not that I wouldn't eat, it's that I couldn't-big difference, but anorexia nonetheless.
So in my state of mind, if I ever got hungry I would immediately order something, anything, it didn't matter because I had food in my stomach. The item on the menu I wanted was (you guessed it), strawberries dipped in chocolate.

Do you eat these on a regular basis? Does anyone know the reason why they pick steroid, beefed up strawberries? Does trying to bite into it, with chocolate dropping onto your plate and constant napkin use sound like a sexy food item to you? Because it isn't. It's like going to a sushi restaurant and ordering a roll that requires two bites to get down--it's the oddest thing you'll have to do--eat a roll in two bites when the second bite is just picking up the pieces that have strewn all over your plate. This is not the intention of the roll. You don't eat a roll in two bites. You eat it in one. How many times in the paragraph do I have to illustrate this? Do I need to include a picture?

This goes for strawberries, too. Not fun. The purpose is to delicately place a small, chocolate dipped strawberry into the mouth of your loved one, and eat. Not trying to cup your hand under their chin to make sure everything that falls off doesn't go straight to either the table or the floor. Suddenly the two of you aren't laughing, but sort of forcing yourselves to make some kind of noise as to not make the other think that this is just the worst date you've been on, ever.

Also, to Top of the Mark; the lack of lighting is great to set the mood, but please turn on just a small amount of light, and your plates to not feel like the table. Because when we got up to go swing dancing (which I lied about being able to do, when turns out he's an amazing swing dancer), you realize that your entire forearm is covered in chocolate, and spend the next 5 minutes trying to wipe off hard, dried chocolate and accidentally knocking silverware and plates off the table.

friends don't leave friends behind with their other friends

I firmly believe in the whole "reaction to every action" theory out there. I say this because it seems as though whenever I suddenly become single, my dating life transforms into this major awkward hell-fire before settling down again. Having been in [any] previous relationship that allowed for you to be yourself, it's a bit hard to stay mysterious for the lucky first few dates you go on. I'm sure there are plenty of men out there who still refer to me as "that crazy bitch who made everything really weird".

Fortunately for me, they invented this magical elixir called Alcohol. This nectar of the Gods is able to take every strange moment and make it not only funny, but completely forgettable the next morning. UNfortunately, it's only forgettable to some, and regrettable for the rest.

Take, for instance, the night my ex and I broke up. After having been told that it was over, I called AC and she told me to come to R Bar in the tendernob-hill area for some warm, fuzzy liquid feelings to perk me back up. I have to say--this bar has to be one of my favorites in the City, despite having only been once. Not only did the bartender serve me drinks right as I was finished without asking, but they played the song, "Damn it feels good to be a Gangsta". Oh yes, yes it did.

Turns out my new single status wasn't the only thing to be celebrated, but also the birthday of AC's long-time friend, Z. After passing on the disgusting fernet shots she pushed in front of me, I was suddenly made aware that Z was Jewish.

Jewish, you say? You're kidding! When you have two Jews meet who are consistently surrounded by either atheists or christans/catholics (or raised as such), suddenly every single inside joke starts to come out. The guilt. The gefilte fish at Passover. The free trip to Israel (neither of us had taken it). We sat there and laughed our asses off for what felt like hours, both of us screaming out we had been "cheated" out of approximately 4,000 dollars and a computer every other Jewish kid our age got when they had their bar/bat mitzvah (neither of us had one).
It was at that point that AC mentioned she wanted to leave, and Z wanted to show us the new apartment two doors down he had just scored. Paying the tab and leaving, going up the elevator and into the door of his (very) small 1 bedroom apartment (/studio?), we were given the "grand" tour.

Out of nowhere, AC decides she wants to leave. I'm absolutely smashed but still coherent, and Z was obliterated. Apparently, when you drink your mind moves about half the pace it normally does. I know this because in the time that it took my brain to process AC was leaving, she had already gone out the door, down the stairs, and Z made a furious move on me. It was like he was attacking me with his mouth, and not the pleasant kind.

I kept stopping him. "You know, we should...:smooch: probably not...:smooch:...cause you know...:smooch:...just broken...:smooch:...my..ex...:smooch:..." I swear this lasted at least a good 15 minutes.

Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore and jerked up in bed, grabbed my purse, yelling "I have to go! Sorry! I'm really sorry! This is really awkward, I'm sorry!"

I ran to my car, started bawling and didn't leave until I started sobering up. Actually, I think I was pretty fucking sober by this point, and I'm pretty sure that crying just allows alcohol to eject itself from your tearducts or something.

Last weekend I was at the kareoke bar in Nob Hill (see first entry), and I turn around to see Z passing me.

AC: "Do you remember her? The makeout/freakout in your apartment a few months ago?"
Z: "I don't remember going to that bar, actually."

...

Off the hook!

Note to self: make sure if you go out with AC's friends, that no one is having a birthday. It seems as though I end up making out with the birthday boy almost every single time (2 out of 3). Stop using me, or at least buy me a drink!

no, please, keep staring at my chest.

"So, I..uh...heard you recycle boys.", he said to me as our conversation came to a standstill. Already two minutes into drinks at a kareoke bar in Nob Hill, and I was already regretting being set up by two mutual friends of ours. I just stood there, thanking the diety I believe in that the bar was not only dark, but loud as hell so he couldn't hear me mumbling, "Oh. My. God."

To be fair, I was wearing a t-shirt from Pier 39 that had, "I *insert recycling symbol here* BOYS" plastered across my chest. It was 15 dollars and supposed to be a joke. Plus, I hadn't been home since Friday morning and ran out of clean clothes to wear. However, in no way should this have precipitated anything more than a reason to make a quick glance at my chest.

The night started out routine, in where I arrive, pay for my own first drink and hope that the alcohol I consumed pre-bar kicks in and spending 6.50 for a crappy vodka & tonic would be justified. Standing with a group of friends and awaiting my turn to sing, this tall gentlemen kept looking in my direction. Fine, it's nice to be stared at sometimes. Then AC comes up and mentions how he is the roommate of a friend of hers, and would I like to be fixed up. "You know what, he's tall, I'll give it a shot" (fact: I love tall men, preferably 6'3'' to 6'6'').

Note to self: when your friends offer something nice like that, make sure they aren't drunk, because mine were. I was led to the bar in a non-discreet fashion, and suddenly Tall Guy appears and offers a drink. Do you turn down free drinks? No, it's just rude. Just as he was about to strike up a conversation (I think we got to introducing ourselves), my song came on. It is widely known that "my song" to sing in kareoke bars is "All I Want for Christmas is You", by Mariah Carey. I can't hit the high notes, and I have the lung capacity of an 80 year old man who has been smoking 2 packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes a day his whole life, but it's still my favorite song until Christmas actually rolls around.

The moment I got off the stage, admist obligatory praise from my friends (don't worry, I love it), he acts as if I could have been Mariah Carey herself. Really? Gee...thanks. I'm just going to walk...over here now. Oh, shots at the bar courtesy of your roommate? Anything to keep me in this conversation, sure why not.

We slam down our shots, and that is when the turtle walked into the bar and everyone waited for it to crawl to the other side of the room. How do you respond to that? How!? "Um, yeah, I'm a total slut. See? I bought the t-shirt to prove it". It might have been in bad taste to buy in the first place, but putting a cherry on top of the awkward sundae is just a no-no. Thankfully, my friends decided a few minutes later that they wanted to leave, and I sprinted out the door. He called me the next day, and set up a sushi date. At the suggestion of my therapist, I broke it off and told him it just wasn't a good time for me. (Fact: Yes, I have a therapist. You don't honestly believe I get through these awkward moments without some mental health checkups, do you?)

Look- there are very few times when a funny tshirt is acceptable to point out. For example, I wore a shirt based on this comic, and I walked around Fry's Electronics just waiting for someone to hit on me. It didn't matter if there was any interest--I just wanted to attract nerds so I could have something to talk about. If your shirt has a punchline designed for a specific interest group, inevitably, you're going to find someone who comes up to you and strikes up a conversation. Like with my shirt: from there we'd able to branch out into different distros, html codes, then to arguing who hates Vista more...and eventually, we will have had a great chat, and in the end at least we made a new friend.

If you are wearing something like this, then rest assured you are getting a fake number. What legend? World's Smallest Penis? Do you have tiny hands, is that why it looks so big to you? WHY ARE YOU WEARING THAT!?

It goes without saying that the shirts you find in Pac Sun, Hollister, Hot Topic, et al, are truly unacceptable for anyplace other than the frat house. We are all grown-up now, kiddies, and it's about time we stop wearing shirts that say "Tastes like Chicken" on it. We all know what it tastes like, thanks for sharing.

Thankfully, there are places out there on t3h internetz that are designed to help the fashion-challenged graduate into adults. One site in particular is run by a very good friend of mine, Karl. Not only does he have a site completely devoted to awesome shirts, but he also loves all things Star Wars and has traveled all over the world. Oh, and he's British. And single. Go buy one of his shirts, and then go forth into the dating world.

I've never been able to end these things at all clever, so uh...

wow this is awkward.

...