2005-09-05 - 1:25 a.m.
WHINING...And Dining
There are two kinds of guys you NEVER want to date: One is the "lethargic lothario"…that low-energy dude who hasn’t had a fresh idea since, “Hey, let’s go to Woodstock.” He can never think of anything to do.“I don’t know…what do YOU want to do? I don’t care…whatever.”
The other is the "Harvey WHINE-stein"…the guy who complains about EVERYTHING, including, but not limited to:
--his ex-wife
--his rotten kids
--his job
--his hair loss
--his allergies
--his bad back
--his entire gastro-intestinal tractIt's funny how the one thing guys never whine about…and they SHOULD…is the fact that they can’t get it up..!! THAT they ignore. I guess that’s really more what I whine about. They never seem to notice that that small, soft, "sleeping sparrow" between their legs is a real problem. Don’t they know that women want PYTHONS…not earthworms..!! Dudes…it’s called VIAGRA…it’s legal…get some..!!
Last week a guy from Match.com…let’s call him SM…e-mailed me to say “I really don’t like Match.com…I can never find anyone on this site…but I liked your picture and your profile and you have a great smile…so write me back RIGHT AWAY because I’m canceling my Match.com membership in three days..!!
Well…what to do? That was a pretty negative note except for the part about my smile, which is, in fact, great (thank you!). His profile was totally thin because, obviously, he was too low-energy to take the time to make it interesting. But he was 55, 6’5” (I like ‘em tall!!), and geographically feasible (he lives in Soho). In fact, he describes himself as “a Soho bon vivant.”
He gave me his phone number, so, ever the romantic optimist (yeah, right!), I called.
Within TWO MINUTES, I knew he was a total “Harvey.”
He complained about his work, which has something to do with computers. He used to do this…but he got screwed outta that…so now he does this or that…or whatever. WHO CARES? I hate it when a guy says, “Hey, it’s a living.” Even if most of us think that most of the time…you don’t say it in a first conversation. It’s so negative…and so totally boring and blue-collar and ignorant!
He continued his rant against Match.com…
“I never meet anybody NORMAL on this site. I only sign up when they’re offering a special “free trial” week. (So, he’s CHEAP, too…an extremely unattractive attribute in a guy!)
I asked him if he was ever married, and he said “Once…a long time ago. I should never have married her in the first place.” (So, why did you, numb nuts?) Now I’m totally tuning out on this guy. But he continued…
“I was in a ‘pretty serious six-month relationship’ last year…but then it was Hanukkah and her birthday…and I just couldn’t deal with it.”
(With WHAT? What the hell did that mean??)
I started formulating ways to end this conversation, while simultaneously preparing client invoices on Quick Books.
SM: “Have you been to (fill in the stupid, trendy club of your choice)?
ME: “No…I hate those places. I don't understand them. They’re always so noisy…you can’t talk. What's the point?”
SM: “I like to go early…before they start charging ‘bottle fees.’”
ME: “Uh huh.” (Of course you do, you cheap bastard.)
SM: “Have you been to the Burger Bar?”
ME: “Never heard of it…but I’m a vegetarian.”
SM: “I don’t really drink much. My doctor told me to stop drinking for six months because I have some liver damage from too much alcohol…and MOTRIN.”
(Hang in there...it gets worse.)
SM: “Well, maybe we can have a nightcap over the weekend…say 9-ish?”
(First of all, NO ONE has a nightcap at 9 p.m…!!! Having a nightcap usually means having "one more drink" after a pleasant evening of dinner or a movie, a play, a concert, etc…because you don't want the night to end...and it usually happens well after 11 p.m. Suggesting a nightcap at "9 o'clock" implies that you’re too cheap to suggest cocktails at 6…like a normal person…because that might involve more than one beverage…and because you’re WAY TOO CHEAP to suggest dinner.)
Anyway, I told SM that "I go out to Quogue every weekend to relax, ride my bike and sit in my garden and read."
SM: “I used to have a share in the Hamptons, but the traffic was terrible, I didn’t like my housemates, the bars were crowded, the beaches were a zoo…blah, blah, blah…”
My head…and my spirit…was SO hurting from this guy. SM was starting to feel more like “S&M” for me…pure torture and disgust. I was rolling my eyes and my brain was screaming “UGH!!”…and, worst of all, I was having trouble concentrating on my bookkeeping! I told him I would be out of town the following week.
Well, he has since sent me two e-mails to say how much he “enjoyed our conversation”…that I was “easy to talk to”…and did I want to meet up one night when I got back??
Of course, I never responded to the e-mails…and, hopefully, that will be the end of SM. But NOT the end of whiny guys in general…you can count on that!!
I once had a blind date with a guy who whined about what kind of drink to order…
“Oy…I don’t know what to have. I don’t really drink. What’s a good drink? What would I like? What are YOU having”
“Vodka with cranberry juice.” (you chipmunk!)
“Okay…I’ll have that, too”
The drinks arrived. Then, in a really loud whiny voice, he said:
“Oh my GAWD. This is really TART. How can you drink this, Linda? Oh, WOW…my palate is tightening up.”
After THREE sips, he told me he felt “tipsy”…and needed to get something to eat. I said, “Sure…let’s just relax and finish our drinks first.”
Even the bartender was cracking up. I was mortified.
“I need to eat NOW,” he sniveled.
“Chill out, dude..!!”
With that…he reached over the bar and grabbed the plate of margarita salt…shook some into the palm of his hand…and LICKED it off.
“What the FUCK is wrong with you?”
“I said I was hungry…I needed salt.”
“Okay…well now you have to go. This date is officially over." (after 20 minutes!).
He said, “Well, FINE!!” …and stormed out the door. Two minutes later he walked back in to ask, “Can you at least tell me where the nearest Japanese restaurant is?!!!”
So, last night in bed I was thinking about all the whiny weasels I’ve been out with over the past few years…which led to a totally wacky (here it comes!) DREAM…
I was having dinner at Caffe Rosso with WOODY ALLEN, the quintessential whiner, with whom I was having an affair. We were with another couple…Ellen DeGeneres and Portia di Rossi. Woody was thinking of casting Portia in his next film.
Portia was guzzling Pinot Grigio like she'd been stranded in the desert for a week, and Ellen was pounding back vodka rocks. Woody drank seltzer and ordered a small steak and a salad. I had linguine with white clam sauce and joined Portia in demolishing two more bottles of Pinot Grigio. “Us girls” were having a blast…well, until Portia and Ellen started making out like monkeys. Then it was back to Woody who was complaining about finding sand in his arugula.
“Why can’t they WASH this? Why do I have to find sand in my salad.? They’ll probably charge me EXTRA…they’ll tell me it’s special ITALIAN sand…that it’s good for me…it’s FIBER.”
“STOP it!!!. Just ask the waiter to bring you something else.”
“I don’t want anything else. I’m full already. And I’m sitting here watching the middle-aged daughters of Sappho play tonsil hockey.”
“Lighten up.”
“Why do they have to exchange saliva in a place where people are eating? It’s not SANITARY. I’m getting nauseous.”
“You’re ALWAYS nauseous.!!”
Woody told Portia we were leaving and that he’d call her in the morning. She and Ellen decided to stay…and ordered nightcaps and zabaglione to go with their “tongue pie.”
Back at my place, I started pouncing on Woody’s frail and liver-spotted body. I was definitely drunk…and horned up from watching the lesbo love-fest.
“No, STOP…I’m not in the mood.”
“Si, Si, mio piccolo uomo! Desidero la vostra salsiccia..!!”
“Not tonight…and stop with the Italian. I don’t know what you’re saying…and I’m dizzy.”
What a buzz-kill, but I persisted, while stroking his scrawny, scaly little legs…
“Mio ragazzo, li bisogno.”
“NO, LINDA…will ‘ya stop already. I have a headache, and I think I’m getting a cold.”
“Diami il vostro rafreddore” ...and I started kissing him.
(Mind you…up close…his lips are all thin and chapped and naysty…from playing the clarinet, I guess. Anyway, they’re quivery old man lips…but I was really horny.)
“Look,” says Woody, ”Your garlic breath is killing me. Get off me. And your breasts are too big.”
“WHAT? You always LOVED my breasts!” You were OBSESSED with my breasts.”
“Well, I, I, I used to like them…but now I’m into really small breasts. In fact, I’m not into breasts at all. No breasts...that's what I like now.”
What a stupid conversation. I’m thinking…WHY can’t I just be a lesbian and get fixed up with one of Ellen and Portia’s friends? At least they like to have a few cocktails…they love sex…and they really like to dance.
Instead, I said…
“Well, then get the HELL outta here, you myopic meiskeit midget! Go back to your flat-chested Asian girlfriend with the frying-pan face. I’m sick of your whining…and your indigestion…and those ridiculous baggy corduroys.”
Now I was really in a wine-fueled Barese frenzy….
“I want a real, life-size man who knows how to flirt and tease and make love. A guy who has the “what-with.” Someone with ENERGY…and a BIG DICK..!!! You are a depressing little troll…and you have dandruff..!! And your last four movies SUCKED. I don’t know why I ever started seeing you in the first place. You’re a drag. GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Well, the yelling woke me up…so, I guess it's YET another failed "REM relationship" for me..!! ARRgggh!
(Still, Annie Hall is one of my all-time favorite movies.)
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