Cream Cheesy Fantasies

Over this past week, I think I finally found the perfect balance between men and food (though, as my closest friends know, my ultimate fantasy involves a man, cake, and pizza--man optional). This week, I spent exactly as much time and energy as I wanted on both areas of my life, respectively.

On Friday night, I was supposed to go out to dinner with Ben. Ben is another gem from OkCupid who came along very shortly after my debacle (train wreck) with Sean. We went out on a couple of really fun dates, but things fizzled out as I discovered that his studying for the LSATs did not possibly leave enough time for yours truly. You say high maintenance, I say realistic. If a guy is really into me, he’ll make the time. Unfortunately, Ben was really into the LSATs.

Now, LSATs being over, Ben was ready to start things up again. He got in touch two weekends ago, and we made plans for dinner this past Friday. Then, wouldn’t you know it, I’m bouncing out of my Zumba class on Friday feeling on top of the world, when I get the dreaded text. Ben can’t make it to dinner. BUT BEN, I’m thinking (and repeating over and over again to friends who will listen), YOU ARE THE ONE WHO GOT BACK IN TOUCH WITH ME AND ASKED FOR THIS DINNER AND SCHEDULED IT FOR FRIDAY. However, still reveling in my Zumba-infused high, I quickly text a girlfriend and ask her over for dinner that night. She’s free! Hallelujah! Lonely Friday night crisis averted. I tell girlfriend to bring the wine, and I head to the store for appetizers and the makings for Penne a la Vodka.

The way I make Penne a la Vodka is ridiculously easy. The only trick is to make it a bit ahead of time, so the sauce can simmer before it’s time to eat. I start by sautéing garlic in olive oil, then add almost two cups of chopped onions. After those have cooked down, I add a large can of whole stewed tomatoes, a small can of chopped tomatoes, and a small can of plain tomato sauce. I season the mixture with salt, pepper, garlic powder, basil, oregano, marjoram, and red pepper flakes. After these flavors have all come together for a while, I add about ½ cup of vodka and ½ cup of heavy cream. We topped our pasta with leftover goat cheese from the appetizer round, and served it with a simple green salad. For dessert we had diet vodka lemonades at Planet Rose and watched some middle-aged women (and men) with mullets sing karaoke. It was truly a fantastic evening.

Imbued with creative cooking energy by my impromptu dinner party the night before, I decided to bake for our apartment’s going away party on Saturday. I made mini carrot cake cupcakes with cream cheese icing. Making cream cheese icing from scratch makes everyone think you are an unbelievably talented chef. Little do they know I am easily without talent! Simplest recipe I make. I put one 8-oz. package of cream cheese, one stick of softened butter, one 16 oz. bag of confectioner’s sugar and a teaspoon of vanilla into my mixer and mixed away. It probably took 45 seconds.

The going away party was a great success (as were the cupcakes). I was finally over my hangover by Monday evening, just in time for my make-up date with Ben. We went out for thai, and it felt very easy and familiar. I hadn’t seen Ben in at least two months, but I quickly remembered why I liked him so much in the first place (Factors including but not limited to his luscious red locks. I’m a sucker for gingers.) I hope I hear from him soon. We exchanged a few texts today (Me: “It was lovely seeing you again last night.” Him: “It was great seeing you too!”) Based on that I’d say we’re probably on the fast-track to a relationship. Am I right or am I right?!

Don’t answer that.

Tightwads and Tofu

As I expected and hoped against, Mark is not the man for me.

Thursday night’s date went reasonably well, if going “well” means the food was delicious and the ambience of the restaurant was lovely. Mark was right on time, and was well-versed in the restaurant’s best dishes and drinks. There’s a fine line between a man ordering my dinner and ordering me around, but Mark toed the line gracefully. He ordered us egg-poached truffle toast and a sampling of various meats to share for appetizers. As my favorite part of any meal, the appetizers appeared to be an auspicious start to the evening. However, things went downhill from there.

“I’m not that hungry—Are you?” he asks. It’s 9pm on a Thursday. I worked all day and then went straight to a relatively intense yoga class. I am fucking starving.

“Yeah, no, me either. Whatever you think.” Mark suggests that we share a salad and an entree. Fine. I’ll just have to stop by Hot & Crusty on my way home. This is strike one against Mark. Strike two came around dessert. Mark decides he’ll just have a cappuccino, but welcomes me to take a look at the dessert menu. Thank you for this allowance, Mark. I scan the menu and announce to Mark that I’ll be ordering the tiramisu. “Have you ever tried panna cotta?” offers Mark. I hadn’t, and Mark took the liberty to flag down our waitress and replace my dessert order with his own. Bad move, my friend. Bad move.

Strike three (though I can barely call this the last strike) arrived awkwardly with the check. This is never an exceptionally comfortable time in the date, but the way a man handles it is a good indicator of what’s to come down the road. As a modern woman and moderate feminist, I believe that going dutch once in a relationship is necessary and appropriate. However, when the guy chooses an expensive restaurant for our SECOND date, I expect him to foot the bill. Mark had no such inclinations. When I politely offered to help (and expected to be turned down), Mark asked what I had on me. Annoyed, I pull $40 out of my wallet. “This is all I have,” I tell Mark. BECAUSE I WASN’T EXPECTING TO PAY, YOU CHEAP BASTARD. “Well,” he chortles, “You can just buy me a drink at the next place.” Right…The next place...

Needless to say, I never bought Mark that drink I owed him. He sealed the never-again deal on our walk home, as I had to practically fight off his physical advances. Perhaps this was my fault for kissing him goodnight on our first date, but that was before I knew him! A valuable lesson learned. Never kiss on the first date?

Another near hit, another big miss. I haven't lost too much sleep over it. Instead, I cooked. I took my dateless weekend and brainstormed the most colorful, innovative stir-fry I've yet to dream up. My girlfriend brought the wine, and I brought the fibrous vegetables. What wasn't in this stir-fry? It started with onions, garlic, zucchini, butternut squash, red peppers, carrots and broccoli. After sauteing these with a bit of olive oil, ground ginger, garlic powder, and cayenne pepper, I added tofu that was pan-fried in soy sauce. To this combo I added fresh shrimp, and covered the whole mix in Soy Vey teriyaki sauce. We ate outside, and shared the stir-fry straight out of the pan with chopsticks. We drank wine from plastic cups. It was exceedingly better than any first (or second) date I've been on in a long time.

Here's to Tonight?

After my (brief) dating hiatus, I happened upon a surprisingly great date this week. Not surprising for any particular reason other than the fact that I felt primed to be disappointed. My life without dates was going so well, I didn’t feel compelled to add anyone new to the mix.

This week’s date, Mark, and I actually began messaging months and months ago. I eventually fell off the message train when things started up with Sean (about whom an update will appear later this post). I sent Mark a message in a fit of urgent desperation that fateful night two weeks ago when Josh abruptly canceled our date (and our budding relationship). SOMEONE wants to go out with me, RIGHT?! At some point between Josh’s blow off and Sean’s pathetic request for a reprieve (I say pathetic now. At the time, I believe the words that came to mind were romantic, remorseful, seductive), I dashed off a message to Mark. “Hey! It’s Jodie! Sorry it’s been so long! Want to get a drink sometime next week?” Jesus. Who’s the pathetic one now? Happily for me, Mark seemed unfazed by the months of silence. He’d love to get a drink. So, we met Sunday night at a charming, cozy bar (his pick) in the East Village.

Mark grew up in Cape Cod, which alone makes him very different from many of the men I’ve dated thus far in my life (Can I help that brown men are such generous lovers?). He’s much more WASP-y than is typical for me. If a man is wearing salmon-colored pants, I generally assume that we aren’t meant to be. Basically, I figured he was a Republican. I figured wrong! After glass two (or was it three?) of wine, we meandered into politics and I gratefully discovered that Mark is quite liberal in his views. Impressive for a white guy whose parents are small-town, relatively conservative Christians. For this reason and others, I was liking him already. He works in a creative field, and yet still asked enlightened questions about my line of work. He lives with his brother (cute!) who has a girlfriend (good sign!) in a loft (rich!) in Brooklyn (meh).

Only one red flag: Mark couldn’t let the night end without telling me that he and his friends are “notoriously single.” Sweet. Maybe get off a website explicitly designed for meeting a significant other? Though I do believe he said something about this being the right time to get his personal life in order, what with his business doing so well…

We shall see. Mark and I are going out to dinner tonight (His text said to meet at the restaurant at 8:30/9ish. What the hell am I supposed to do with that time frame?! Am I supposed to confirm?? How am I to know whether dinner is in fact at 8:30 or 9 o’clock?! I hate myself). I’m looking forward to seeing him and to eating delicious food. I can’t even pretend I’ve done anything interesting in the kitchen this week (unless we include spilling an entire protein shake all over the stove). I’ve eaten more grilled chicken this week than I care to repeat. I’m having a friend over for dinner Monday night, so hopefully that will force me into creating something special. I hope Mark is ready for me to over-order.

And, as promised, an update on Sean: It’s simple, really. Sean is the devil. He was brought into this world to ruin the lives of women who cross his path. Am I being dramatic? Yes. Is he really that big of a prick? Also, yes. Longish story short, I ended up leaving a very embittered voicemail on his phone. If done effectively, this might have been satisfying. However, at some point in my rant, I was cut off. “Thank you. Goodbye!” The automated voicemail lady knew I was being too nuts for my own good. I can’t be sure who she was protecting—Sean or myself—but someone up there was watching out. Good looks, wireless provider/God. Only one day left until Sean ships off to Bangladesh. Not a moment too soon.

Just Call Me Jason Derulo

I'm riding solo.

At some point last week, I'm talking to my roommate (roommate/receiver of all my man news--good, bad, ugly) and we're casually scanning the available men on-line."I think I'm kind of sick of this," I say to her, "but I guess I have to have a date this week, right? For the blog?"

"Well, Jodie," says my always wise and immeasurably more rational roommate, "Why don't you not go on a date this week and write about THAT? What was it like to NOT have a date? How did that feel?" I always knew it—she is brilliant.



And so, this week, I went on no dates. To be honest, I didn't really miss it. Sure, getting tipsy with an attractive stranger mid-week is a fun thing to look forward to while drudging through the work day, but going dateless was surprisingly liberating. It was a relief not to have to plan outfits, choose bars, or mask my shameful hangover at the office. I didn’t end the week with any exciting new prospects, but I also wasn’t sending passive aggressive text messages at 11pm Sunday night trying to discern whether or not I should write Thursday’s tentatively scheduled date in my planner.

Without man drama, I managed to have myself a very productive and exciting week. Monday night I played in my first adult-league co-ed softball game (Did I say no man drama? I do believe I spotted at least three potential boyfriends on the opposing team). Tuesday I volunteered at an (open bar) charity function and logged some invaluable face time with possible future employers. Wednesday night I re-grouped at home. I cooked myself pasta with pesto, grilled chicken, spinach, and steamed broccoli, and watched three episodes of Sister Wives. Thursday I went to happy hour with said wise roommate, and the weekend I spent enjoying this fine city with my best friend from college.



All in all, it was a relaxing yet activity-filled week of satisfying platonic fun. It’s important for me to remember that I can enjoy myself thoroughly with or without a male partner. For a week, at least.



And yet, a word of advice. If you are ever feeling particularly single or unusually lonely, do not take yourself to the Brooklyn Flea market. Williamsburg on a sunny Sunday afternoon has more happy, skinny, fashionable couples than a sample sale at Todd Oldham. And more small dogs. Just a warning.


Heartache In a Half-Shell

At the close of my post last Wednesday evening, I had sworn off dating forever (while simultaneously alluding to the fact that I would never, EVER swear off dating). Little did I know, I would be dating again by later that same evening.

There I am, lying on the couch innocently perusing Facebook (willing myself not to review my new matches on OkCupid) when I receive a text from SEAN. I am so tempted to use his real name but will resist. A pseudonym cannot possibly imply the intensity of emotions I experience upon hearing, speaking or reading his name. That being said, you can imagine my shock upon seeing his number pop up on my phone (As damage control I had taken Sean’s number out of my phone—is it my fault that he has a highly unique and recognizable area code?!)

At this point you might be asking yourself—WHO THE HELL IS SEAN? MAYBE IF YOU WEREN’T RUNNING AROUND WITH SO MANY DIFFERENT MEN YOU WOULDN’T GET HURT SO OFTEN! And you might be right. Yet, I digress. Sean and I met early on in my online dating career, and we hit it off immediately. Five intimate dates plus daily phone and text contact? I assumed we were on the road to marriage. When I left to visit my best friend in North Carolina, we had nightly video chats. Upon reuniting after that week apart, I (assuming the feeling was mutual) expressed to Sean that I was ready to be monogamous with him. After a slightly awkward conversation—one that involved me assuring Sean that of course I understood he just got out of a relationship and therefore couldn’t possibly be expected to commit fully—Sean agreed. Shocker of all shockers, I received an e-mail from Sean two days later saying it was too much too soon. “I hope you don’t hate me,” he wrote.

I wished I could hate him. My dinner for the week following that e-mail alternated between Chipotle burritos and potent mood stabilizers washed down with red wine.

After a week I was over the worst of it. I de-friended him on Facebook (a move I had previously deemed petty and immature) and moved on with my life. And now, three months later and finally VERY over it, I am totally thrown by Wednesday night’s text. “Do you hate me?” I respond: “Yes.” Sean goes on to tell me that he broke things off with me because he got back with his ex-girlfriend, and now they’ve broken up, and would I consider meeting him for a drink to let him explain and apologize in person? Ordinarily, of course, I would have said no. 10pm on a Wednesday night? As IF I could be available so last minute. But there I am, with a dress, shoes, and make-up in my bag—all at the ready for my previously cancelled date with Josh. So, we go for drinks. His hair is longer and more shaggy than I remember, and for a second I think maybe I won’t feel the same way about him as I did before. No shot. After two glasses of wine, I can’t remember how he ever wronged me and we’re having a better time than I ever remember having with anyone (please let this be hyperbole on the part of my memory).

Fortunately and unfortunately for me, Sean is moving to Bangladesh in eleven days. Still, I had trouble keeping my mind off him this past weekend. At least I didn’t resort to mood stabilizers as meals. Instead, I made linguine with clams. I sautéed tons of garlic in olive oil and gradually added white wine, clam juice, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. I tossed this sauce with whole wheat linguine and three cans of chopped clams, then added at least a cup of grated parmesan. I may not have a new summer boyfriend, but my dad thought the dish was impressive. He thinks I’m a real catch. Now, is there a man out there to try my cooking to whom I’m not biologically related?

Stick A Fork In Me

I'm done.

And not like a delicious, juicy, perfectly-cooked steak. I'm done like Jill Zarin with Ramona Singer at the Pinot Grigio party. Done like my 63-year-old father after a rousing game of racquetball. Done.

Monday night of Memorial Day weekend, I get a text from Josh (wine-guy, Hoboken, good date. Hard to keep track, I know. I often have trouble myself.) He got home very late from his weekend trip to San Francisco, and would I mind post-poning our dinner until Wednesday? No, of course not Josh. I'll just unpack tomorrow's gym bag with my date outfit, matching shoes, cute underwear, make-up bag and reschedule my entire day/week that I had previously planned around you. No problem. Wednesday is perfect.

Trying to make the most of my underwhelming Tuesday evening, I go out for a drink with a friend for her birthday, and come home just tipsy enough to be crafty in the kitchen. Quite crafty indeed. I saute some onions in olive oil and salt, and then throw in some scallops, calamari, and shrimp. I season all this with lots of garlic, garlic powder, red pepper flakes, dry parsley, salt and pepper. I then add steamed broccoli, and serve it all over Shirataki noodles. [Note: Shirataki noodles are made out of tofu and they might be god's gift to the universe. They have just 20 calories per serving -WHAT?!- and I swear one gets the sensation that regular noodles are being consumed. Just saying.] So, disappointing evening made fun and delicious. I was able to celebrate a friend, cook a healthy meal, and go to bed early (albeit alone).

At 9am this morning, however, I receive a text message. It is from Josh. This is what it says: "Hey, I'm not going to be able to make it tonight. Have a good rest of the week. Sorry." Now, if that is not a break-up text, I don't know what is. What on earth am I doing wrong?! Someone, anyone, a bone?!? I wish I had responded, "HAVE A GOOD REST OF YOUR LIFE, ASSHOLE!" But I didn't. Then he would know how crazy I really am, as opposed to the level of crazy I allow others to see. According to my therapist, my disappointment around these dates not working goes back to my early years... Was it hard to be away from my mother? Check. Did I allow myself to be treated badly by men in earlier stages of my life? Check. Do I feel that I need validation from men to feel real? FUCK!

So, here we are. Here I am. I just ate tomato soup for dinner. But, let's be realistic. How done REALLY is Jill with Ramona? Doesn't my dad always go to his next racquetball game even though he has ace bandages on every appendage? I may be done for now, but I do believe I see my OkCupid Inbox flashing...