Lost in Emoji-lation

Today in things that happen with a BlackBerry that people with iPhones don’t understand:

One of the [very] few [and very far between] flaws with the BlackBerry is that emojis don’t turn up as super cute, full-color, emotion-laden graphics. They show up like this:

Not a huge deal, right? Hopefully most conversations amongst late 20/early 30 year olds don’t rely heavily on illustrations?

…Sure.

A few years ago, I was texting with a guy I was seeing* at the time. We shall call him Chad**. Chad liked to make fun of me for the always long and generally meandering stories I like to tell. After one such story, he sent me three emojis, knowing I would be unable to decipher them.

Me: Those better be ponies.

His nickname for me was Pony. I don't remember exactly why, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't for whatever reason you're thinking it was.  

Chad: Two ponies and a princess.

Adorable, right?

Fast-forward two days. One of my nearest and dearest takes pity on my lost-in-translation soul and offers up a piece of advice:

N&D: “You know you can see those on your iPad, right?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

N&D: “If you email yourself any of these texts, you’ll be able to see the emoijs.”

How glorious! Also effort-consuming, but, you know, worth it? (I used to have a lot of extra time/energy on my hands.) 

We decide to start with Chad's "two ponies and a princess": 

…

Chad and I didn't last very long. 

...

My Mom: Whatever happened with Chad? Why didn't things work out with him?
Me: We, uh, just didn't really connect on a, um, deeper emotional level. 
My Mom: Well, that's surprisingly mature.

...

Isn't it though?

*Sharing meals, movies, and beds with. So, you know, whatever that means to you.
**Not his real name

Rezi Rating

Wherein icouldtalkironyforever and I dissect dinner date destinations in the Beverly Hills/West Hollywood area. It gets deep. 

icouldtalkironyforever: these days are so crazy
like giving up the hottest date night
or middle of the week
both days are hothothot

me: hahahahhaa right?
i think ima say wednesday

icouldtalkironyforever: YES
can you go somewhere cuter than mastros?

me: i know right?
i kind of don’t love mastros at all
like at all at all

icouldtalkironyforever: for some reason i can only see dinner with you at eveleigh

me: hahahahhahaa
and little door! and doms!
places with trees inside

icouldtalkironyforever: i hate mastros
i think of bad food
yes trees inside

me: yeah, and cheesy people
and like a thick, weird atmosphere

icouldtalkironyforever: thick

me: and i always do something awkward in the entryway

icouldtalkironyforever: ALWAYS

me: it’s always so uncomfortable
so much staring

icouldtalkironyforever: bouchon is a great alternative
dim lighting

me: ooh yes

icouldtalkironyforever: also church key is sooo good for dates
and they have a dim sum cart
that comes BEFORE you even order your food
boom

me: ooh realllllly
i like this idea

icouldtalkironyforever: the vibe is fun

me: didn’t you say their food was subpar?
no
wait

icouldtalkironyforever: yes
hahaha

me: oh haha
ok 
that was the place

icouldtalkironyforever: but some stuff was coo
and they have a banana split

me: um
brilliant

icouldtalkironyforever: but anything involving bananas is too suggestive on the first date
or maybe not…bc I love bananas
my dates/non dates are SOOOOOO aggressive
sorry

me: i feel like its esp too suggestive for men over 32
hahahhahahahaa
i love your dates

icouldtalkironyforever: we have great dates

me: haha we really do

icouldtalkironyforever: he should take you to doms
bc u love it there right?

me: comfycozyhomesweethome
my fave

icouldtalkironyforever: unassuming
love it 

5 Stars for Dominick’s. 7 for banana splits. 

…

The date still occurred at Mastro’s.

Good talk.

Men Want What Women Want What Men Want

When I told my mom I had been maintenance-texted by a boy, she squeezed my hand reassuringly, “I wouldn’t look at it that way – I’d look at it like he was thinking about you!”

Thank you for feeding my delusions, Mother. That explains so much.

I can’t blame my mom for her indefatigable optimism regarding the intentions of the unfair sex. When she was walking the hallway of hormones, things were a lot more straightforward. My dad and his best friend flipped a coin to see who could ask her out. My father won. The end.  Or, more aptly, the beginning.

Many people like to blame the disintegration of chivalry on modern technology. Sure, the advent of texting and social media, and the ensuing fissure in formal communication, have thrown the game onto a whole new playing field; but, I think the real anti-courting culpability lies elsewhere: A serious lack of shotgun-wielding fathers.

If any man-child had so much as attempted to maintenance-anything my mother, Grandpa Smith would have taken to his pickup truck, Winchester in hand, prepared to supplement the fear of God with a few well-placed bullets. (Just ask my dad about the time he came to pick up my mom…on a motorcycle…with long blonde hair and short denim shorts. Let’s just say he’s lucky he has a good sense of humor – and happened to hold the state track record in the 400m.)

I would wager that, for most of us in our mid-to-upper twenties, our fathers are harboring such severe concerns over their daughters’ unceasing singledom that they wouldn’t dare scare off a potential suitor. Any suitor. Any suitor at all.

And they don’t need to; apparently, we are doing a good enough job of that on our own.  Basing this entire theory on personal experience and a solid number of conversations with individuals on both sides of the gender line, I have determined that men are now terrified of women.  In the words of one such shaky soul, “It’s just hard to figure out what you girls want.”

That’s fair. When last June’s Atlantic cover boldly declared that women can’t have it all, many of my friends and I found ourselves asking if we even really want to have it all. And what does “it all” entail, exactly, in today’s society? Then we realized we might be jumping the gun a bit. How are we supposed to boldly assert our right to rule the corporate world, with a ring on the finger and a baby on either hip, if we are still referencing the words of “Why Men Love Bitches” in daily conversation?

I am confident in my beliefs. When I know, without a doubt, that I want something, I have no problem stating that. But what about when what I want really depends on if you want it, too, but you’re not sure what I want, so you’re not entirely certain that it’s what you want? A magazine excerpt I spotted in a MoMA exhibit had a delightfully delicate turn of phrase for this dilemma: “You are your own woman in the hope of being just what someone else is looking for.” This clipping was from the 1950’s, suggesting that this is not a new predicament. I would venture to state that this is an age-old issue, exacerbated by the current lack of clear societal rules.

Women are getting married and having children later in life. They are no longer branded an old maid if they’re thirty and single, and long gone are the days of the virgin white bride. In the immortal Pretty Woman words of Kit and Vivian, “We say who, we say when, we say how much.”

By the same token, men are no longer compelled to commit.  The image of that sad, single adman drinking alone at the end of the bar, while his postwar suburbia peers sit huddled about the TV with their families, has been replaced by a group of laughing, boisterous, middle-aged tech tycoons flirting shamelessly with acquiescing blondes, twenty years their junior. Even if they do plan on settling down eventually, there’s no rush. I can almost guarantee you that there was not a single group of men discussing the potential freezing of their eggs over dinner last night.

Yay! Even playing fields! Betty Friedan would be so proud.

Unfortunately for us indecisive types, this basically means that you either figure out exactly what it is you want, and cling steadfastly to that banner, or you linger indecisively in insecure trepidation around a multitude of romantic possibilities, until one ultimately (hopefully) pans out.

Yeah, I’m probably going to go with option B, too.

Nice Guys Don't Finish Last - Weak Men Do

"I didn’t think there was any way you’d take that shot," said the stranger, his delivery laced with forced bravado.

I turned to face my verbal assailant. Stony stare. Left eyebrow slightly peaked. Irritation in full effect.

I know what you’re thinking - that icebreaker wasn’t that bad. And you’re right.  It wasn’t. It wasn’t rude; it wasn’t crass; it wasn’t ridiculously cheesy…it was just annoying. Do I happen to enjoy the process of taking shots? No. Did he know that? Nope. He didn’t know anything about me. 

Presumption and banality are the curse of a nervous pick-up line. This wasn’t some misogynistic a-hole; this was a nice guy pumping himself full of false confidence and attempting to run game.

“Where are you from?”

“Originally? Nebraska.”

“Nebraska?! Ha. I’m sorry.”

…

Seriously?

Nice-guy negging is one of the saddest phenomenons to come out of The Game. Essentially a how-to guide for picking up chicks, The Game perpetuates the myth that the quickest way to a girl’s heart is to cut down her self-esteem.

First of all, this only works if said girl is 18 years old/or seriously damaged. Second of all, good-hearted, well-meaning dudes just don’t do it right.  They don’t fully commit. They can’t bring themselves to say something totally barbaric, so they pick a mundane topic and quibble it to death.

Kill. Me. Now.

At least when a guy’s a complete dbag, you can tell him to f*ck off and continue your evening in peace.  These awkwardly aggressive shy-guys manage to pull at your heartstrings, even while firing up every single one of your neuroses. How long are you supposed to wait before you tell them you JUST DON’T CARE? You don’t want to hurt the poor dude’s feelings.

Approaching a girl at a bar can be a nerve-whittling experience.  We get that.  And we appreciate when legitimate men make the effort.  When we say nice guys are hard to find, what we really mean is, nice guys who haven’t been beaten down by their needless insecurities. If the sweet sector of the less-fair sex would simply embrace their congenial qualities and let that affability fuel their swagger, the dating world would be a much saner place.

And just in case there is any confusion, ignorantly insulting a girl’s home state - or her BlackBerry for that matter - will not get you laid.

Ever.

Chasing the Passion

In response to a friend’s shocked/appalled/aghast/bewildered reaction to the intense level of inactivity in my dating life, I vowed to liven it it up a bit. Two nights later, a tall Australian entered the scene. He had flown into NY that Thursday for his best mate’s birthday party, and was scheduled to depart on a business trip Saturday morning. His one free night was Friday and he would love to take me to dinner. 

I ran through my mental checklist: 
6’2” or above: Check.
Sense of humor: Check. (Though dangerously close to the cheesy side, not so near as to dismiss immediately.)
Broad-shouldered, athletic & attractive: Check, Check, & Check.
Easy conversationalist: Check.
Has a real job: Check.

Looks like I was saying yes. 

My initial concerns:

1. He appeared to be slightly older than I am generally comfortable with dating. Perhaps he had over-indulged a touch in all that Australian fun-in-the-sun?

2. I was still worried about the cheese factor, due to a couple fleeting moments in conversation - and also due to his shirt, of which I was not particularly fond.

Early afternoon on Friday, he calls to say he has made 8pm dinner reservations, and perhaps we can meet at 7p to walk along the westside a bit first. I say fine. Around 4p, he texts to confirm 7p at his apartment in SoHo. I respond that this should be fine, as I am currently frolicking around the West Village with friends. He replies back that I can come around 6:30 instead, if I would like. I’m not entirely certain what it was about, “frolicking around the West Village with friends” that led him to believe I would want to meet up earlier; regardless, I choose to ignore the text.

I arrive in SoHo around 7:15. (West Village antics may have segued into vegan ice cream bars and margaritas with mylifeissonotironic. Oops.) We thankfully skip the previously planned hour and a half pre-dinner stroll due to my delayed appearance. I mean, it’s a first date. Let’s not kill all conversation topics before we even get to the restaurant. 

We walk through SoHo and over to the Flatiron district to Pure Food & Wine. The walk was actually quite lovely and entertaining, and dinner proceeded to be both lively and delicious. I found myself remembering why I like dating. Fun, flirting, White Light Tinis…I really should do this more often.

As he handles the check, I reach to check the time on my BlackBerry. F. Dinner had spanned more than three hours. It was currently pushing midnight. So much for going home to change before meeting up with my friends. (Yes, I had post-date plans. And no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.)

I assumed we would do the whole hug-goodnight-I-get-in-a-cab-in-front-of-the-restaurant thing, and I’d be with my BFF’s in less than twenty.

This is where things began to unravel. As I’m trying to politely extricate myself from the situation, Aussie has turned his game on, angling to get laid. This is not a stellar combination.

He wants to walk. Curbside, of course, as his grandmother instructed him to do when walking with a lady. Ok, fine. I can saunter through the park with him and hail a taxi on the other side. I message my friends, giving them an ETA of 30 minutes. 30 minutes later, Man-From-Down-Under is still ignoring every semi-cordial attempt of mine to end the date. I’m making a concerted effort to not be rude slash abrupt, but my companion has made the full transition from amusing and charming to annoying and cheesy. I KNEW IT WAS IN THERE.

As our meandering path veers suddenly and suspiciously toward his flat, I am rescued by back to back phone calls from my besties. (Said phone calls may or may not have been precluded by SOS alerts.) Hi! Yes! I’m coming right now, I swear! Sorry! Literally getting in a cab right now!!

"Are you sure you have to go?" 

Is he serious?

"Yep! Oh! There’s a cab! HadagreattimethankyoufordinnerBYE!"

His reply?

"Oh man, you’re totally running. I wish you wanted to stay and chase the passion with me." 

CHASE. THE. PASSION.

…


"Yeah, ok. I’m going to chase that cab."

This is why I don’t date.

Hi, cats.