I guess...just waiting to win the lotto

finally. finally, i've been hit with pure inspiration to revive this atrocious excuse for a blog.

and apparently in these uncertain financial times, inspiration comes in the form of a 5'4" long island guido.

that's about right.

ok, well, wait...rewind. whenever i get a little bored/get down on myself/run out of things to blame on my parents divorce 20+ years ago....i online date. so i joined nerve.com. (there's a pun in there i can't quite land....anyone?)

long story short: i end up hearing from this kid let's call him bill. we share a few emails. seems like a 4 on a scale of 1 to charles manson. so i agree to meet up with him. date night arrives. i decide, like the geek that i am, to do a quick google to see what i come up with. expecting to come up with a few awkward flickr pics or a tragic facebook profile where he has no more than 112 friends or perhaps an article or two that he wrote for his college newspaper covering a local ice skating rink reopening (Ed Note: that was a great article full of brilliant pull quotes from adorable six-year-olds, and i still think i missed my calling as a local news reporter.)

but nay. i found none of the above. in fact, i found NOTHING on this kid. sketched out. i search for bill's email address. and what appears? jewish camp alumni list! thank GOD for the fact summer camp is birth right 2.0. so as i look down -- i see that his name, attached to his email, isn't bill, but bob! WTF?!

i cancel. blaming a hectic uncle in town.

he calls. and calls. and calls. i clearly didn't pick up on the fact that my phone ringing was a poorly-written metaphor for the bells that should have been going off in my head. but we end up rescheduling for the next week -- last night, if you're following this not-at-all-complicated-or-particularly-relevant timeline.

ok, so i meet him at a random wine bar. he's awkwardly standing outside. (Hint #896826: any self-respecting man would be sitting at the bar. and any man i'd be remotely attracted to would be flirting his face off with the bartender at said bar). back to reality -- i'm a good 2" taller than him [in heels]. reminder: i'm 5'3". i sprint for a seat at the bar to even the playing field. he strolls to a table. i did NOT sign up for a table.

conversation 1 and three things are immediately apparent:

1. he's a cast member on Jersey Shore (if this makes me Snooki, i'm self-defenestrating)
   
2. he's the most unambitious, lazy dude i've ever met. life goal: "to win the lotto and lie around."
3. i can't believe i'm sharing a plate of hummus with this kid. though i'm sort of impressed he could pronounce it.
   

i spend the rest of our time together chugging wine, thanking the good lord that i took the reins to order the vino so i'm not swallowing razorblades of a $24 bottle of merlot.

deciding to end the one awkward silence occurring because he's stuffing his face with chicken (Hint # 898464 who orders chicken?!), as the entire rest of the date he was complaining about one thing or the other -- though thankfully that meant i didn't have to feign interest. anyway, i ask what he has planned for the week. to which he replies, "nothing. what are we doing?"

walked. into. it.

i ask for the check. he insists on walking me home. i complain about my heels, offering up sexual favors to every occupied cab that painfully, rudely flies past.

and here it comes. the doorstep, which in typical nyc fashion, sits snugly between a deli and a graffiti'd indian restaurant, so we had no shortage of audience members for this little show.

i throw out my hand.

he grabs it. and pulls me in. for a kiss.

i. DIED. then threw him the peace sign. pftc.