Friday, December 21, 2007

Bottomline rebuttle

Touche Pierson. Touche. One point, to start:

-Well if it’s Che Chi and not Chee Chee than 9,500 Boston College students are mispronouncing. Write them a memo.

Moving on. Agreed about the finding of the bottom line. Slightly off as it pertains to Deeb – who is Sam’s son (that was weird).
1. I haven’t had a rum and coke since high school. Rum makes me vom. Coke makes me burp. And 2. You only hit the middle line. The middle line, though easily mistaken for the bottom line, is not, in fact, the bottom. The bottom line is this:

I shouldn’t go on a date with Deeb because I don’t really like Deeb and that’s A. not fair to Deeb and B. introducing a dangerous element of discomfort to my otherwise blissful nightly falafel routine. Bottom line, not that attracted to him -- shouldn’t date him, won’t marry him, and should stop flirting with him just because it makes me feel nice about myself. That is the bottom line.

I agree that we are finders of the bottom line, erasers of the grey area, lovers of the brutal. But finding it and following it are two different things. Maybe following it will be something I challenge "in the new year". Or maybe I’ll keep stopping by Deeb’s and you can keep drinking on the weeknights. Because bottomline, may be too old for some shit, but we’re way too young to completely cut the crap.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

"We've progressed to solving problems at a dizzying speed"

We have developed this amazing ability to find the bottom line. What I mean is, when we’re on gchat sneaking conversation between people walking by our desks, we have to cut down our otherwise important and deep conversations to the bare minimum of questions and answers. Ask fast, and think fast.

Sometimes the bottom line can be pretty brutal, though. There’s no grey area. Its not a dotted or fuzzy line. This is the real deal. No holds barred. The bottom line. All other lines are unimportant. We are finders of the bottom line.

Bottom line – Jessie, you’re not going to marry the Greenwich Village falafel mogul. You only flirt with him when you’re drunk, remember? Well actually I guess that’s the problem, you don’t. Never mind marrying him. You’re not even going to meet him for drinks. Because you’re scared that the next time you stop for a falafel after 14 rum and cokes, you might try to make out with him. That would be bad. Bottom line.

So anyway, last weekend my buddy and I decided we were going to get drunk and go to Ziggy’s, the bar down the street. To make a long story short, we did. Actually its not that long of a story. We just drank a lot, and went to the bar. It was kind of a crappy night out, so it was pretty much dead. We still had fun. But then I woke up the next morning asking to die. It kills me to admit this, but I’m way to old for that kind of nonsense. Bottom line.

Also - a few things I feel need to be pointed out. Its Che Chi, not Chee Chee. You called Deeb the Son of Sam. Weird. And also, the last 2 sentences of your post didn’t make any sense at all. Jessie, hopefully you’ll sort out the English language “after the new year.”

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Deeb the dealbreaker

My girls and I play a little game we call Deal Breakers. It’s simple. We go through the alphabet and assign one deal-breaker quality - something that would end a potential relationship with a guy- to each letter. A: acne, B: bald, C: cancer…and it goes on. It is a rousing game that results in heated discussion and, sometimes, hurt feelings.

-“T: tattoo?! You’re saying you couldn’t be with someone who has a tattoo?! That’s so closed-minded!”
-“U is for Uniform? Wait – like any kind of uniform? Like, postal worker, military person, fireman? That’s ridiculous. You just don’t want to say B: blue collar.”
-“Yes, C: Cancer. I’m saying I wouldn’t start a relationship with someone currently battling cancer. Sorry. I stand by that.”

I’ll spare you my entire alphabet. Let’s just say Deeb my falafel man was out on enough letters to make for a nice Scrabble turn – or entire game.

I’ll clarify. Deeb my falafel man is the 26-year-old son of Sam, the owner of Sam’s Falafel – the spot three doors down from my apartment that I stop by most, no, every time I come home drunk. It’s the Chee-Chee’s of my adult existence. And by adult I mean current. Deeb took the business over from his father Sam as a change from his years on Wall Street - years he spent making dough (figurative) so he could invest in real estate and continue building his family business. His family, immigrants from Syria, have owned Sam’s Falafel and a number of surrounding properties for decades. Deeb intends to help his father for several years before returning to his own real estate investments and opening a bar or restaurant of his own.

Apparently over the past four or five months of my drunkenly stumbling into Sam’s Falafel, Deeb has taken a liking to me. This I cannot explain, mostly because I only remember about 30% of the details of our dozens of meetings. Apparently I’m black-out charming.

He’s asked me out for drinks – after the New Year (rant on the “after the new year” phenomenon to come). Do I break my deal breakers and go? Crazy-strong New York accent. Tatoos. Lives with his parents. Works crazy hours. Can’t say I see this going far. Then again, weren’t deal meant to be broken? Or was that rules…

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Return on a Hoeggaarten.

I met a guy at my company Christmas party last week. Yes, I’m that girl. A girl who, after two + years in Manhattan would be open to meeting a guy in the check-out line of a Gristedes. A company function is not below me – it’s above me. Not the point – of this post at least.

Guy was charming. Short-ish and ambiguously ethnic, but seemed to appreciate my drunk jokes/face. He’s a writer (+5 points) of mostly plays (minus 2), but is working on a second documentary (earns 1 back) because his first one was accepted into Cannes last year (jackpot!). Plus he was more than willing to join the party as it moved from official venue to after-party bar meaning probably doesn’t have a wife/kids.

We chat casually at the after-party bar. He’s friendly. I’m drunk-ish. I decide to buy him a unprompted Hoegaarten among a round of drinks for the group. He’s wildly appreciative. Apparently girls don’t often buy unprompted drinks for guys (note to self: do that more).

By 2am I’m exhausted and only 60% interested in him. I gave up hooking up three months ago, so I have to go at least another 3 before I’m a complete hypocrite. I give him my card (I don’t care that some people think this is lame. I slave full-time so I don’t have to write my number on napkins. I’m using the card.), and take myself home.

Cut to today – 11am. I receive the following email:

“I crashed your office holiday party last Thursday then proceeded to overstay my welcome by accompanying you and your co-workers to Puck Fair. So as a 'Thank you' for the Hoegaarden and the good time I have taken the liberty of securing you 2 tickets for The Blue Man Group (our newest client) this Friday night. I'll send a messenger by your office by Wed. to drop them off. It was great meeting you. Happy Holidays!”

I was and remain shocked. Am I supposed to insist he joins me? Since “our newest client” clearly means the tickets were free am I off the hook? Without that disclaimer would I owe him sex? Is my next move a full date to say thanks back? If so this could go on forever! And he’s messengering them? For extra points? Because he’s lazy?

I am ill-equipped to deal with this outrageous nicety. Who teaches this stuff? Where's the rule book? And how the hell do I respond?

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Desperate times, Online measures

We thought we had it all figured out. Until we discovered we hated our job after the first month, and a co-worker asked us out on a date, and we had to decide if "adult" hook-ups always include sex, and our first check bounced. That's when we realized we were screwed. No more dorm living room forums, no more focus-on-your-life-goals courses, drafts that cost way more than a dollar. Just us, out there, trying to figure this shit out over quick gchat sessions while the boss isn't looking.

We figure the feeling is mutual. Our remedy: sarcastic griping about the hard-hitting issues of our 20's to provide some much-needed comfort and, hopefully, a laugh or two. Mostly, we're just trying to re-create the magic of our senior year lunch table inside the famed Boston College Eagles Nest dining hall – the place where all issues, big or small, came to be mulled over, laughed about, and put to rest over the course of our daily, 3-hours meals. Pull up a chair. We've got 5 + years.