A dialectic of the flip flop

I do believe that it is time once and for all to take aim and fire a shot through the most offensive thing to ever happen to clothing that we can blame California for: the flip flop. Let me expand this topic so that you can better understand my most offensive thing lists. Being the undisputed and widely ignored arbiter of style and taste I have made it my mission in life to compile lists of offensive things. So many items have been added to the lists that it became necessary to separate into broad categories such as clothing, food, men, places. And within each category are sub-categories such as clothing we can blame fat people for, clothing we can blame gay people for and clothing we can blame California for. Under that last sub category are the following:

1. Flip flops
2. Hollister
3. Cordorounds
4. Ripped jeans (see also: New York)
5. Tank tops (see also: gym memberships)
6. Untucked shirts
7. Ankle bracelets
8. Ed Hardy
9. Popularization of trucker hats
10. $100.00 tee shirts

Let us first examine the historical context. No acceptable type of clothing has been invented since 1900. In fact, the last century has brought about some of the worst inventions in fashion, items such as running apparel, vinyl luggage and square toed shoes. The only possible explanation for this is the California gold rush, responsible for the widespread habitation of a place that is lush, sunny, and devoid of culture. West became an optimistic, wealthy and warm place while the east coast remained stubborn, cold and impeccably dressed.

The new Californians sought bastardized versions of real clothing that contained less fabric and somehow cost more money. A team of irreverent fashion designers was tasked with the creation of footwear that covered as little of the foot as possible so that hippies may enter food establishments basically barefooted and still be served.

Beaches everywhere welcomed the flip flop because of its natural ability to discard sand by flopping as its wearer moved. This sound inevitably joined the soundtrack of boardwalks everywhere, composed of seagull calls, crashing waves, and crying children.

Next, let me explain the function of this shoe: a flip flop is intended to be worn at a beach. For the same reason that beach towels don't belong in the bathrooms of downtown condos flip flops should remain at beaches. However, an undeniably lazy group of people began wearing the flip flops to places they were not intended to go. First on quick trips to the store, then to casual outings with friends, soon for entire months at a time.

First the flip flop was used interchangeably with a sandal. This is a somewhat honest mistake, however the flip flop does vary in one crucial way: it separates almost completely from your foot exposing you to elements and providing no arch support. Therefore persistent use= filthy and unsafe.

The flip flop soon proliferated all coastal areas and eventually found its way inexplicably to places bordering no major body of water. This is likely the due to the rampant proliferation of laziness known as the seventies. See also: liberal arts colleges.

And now the flip flop can be found in the work place, urban areas known for unfettered public urination, and most places in the world (except London). This issue is not to be taken lightly as it

A. Causes unsightly dirty skanky feet

B. Forces everyone to see said feet

This for obvious reasons is, well:

Encyclopedia of undatable men

In proverbs there is a time and a place for everything. In relationships there is a time and a price for everything. I don't ever like to cry poverty (except on my taxes). I make an honest living, and a very decent one with great benefits. I'm definitely not struggling and I have a great lifestyle. My cat and I live very comfortably. However, I have noticed a steep decline lately in the number of men willing to pay on the first date, and so my wallet has gone from guest star to starring role most of the time. If only to avoid the painfully awkward halfsies conversation. I want half and half in my coffee not on a first date. I suppose I could blame a lot of factors: recession, poor choice of both men and dinner locales, ordering one too many glasses of wine. But none of these seem to make any sense to me.

Last night was dinner with a doctor at Northwestern. Conversation was great, both of our five year plans line up conveniently (read: he was willing to say anything to make me happy), and we both like cats. And even though he's a pretty strict vegetarian he ordered the sirloin in what I can only assume was a play to impress me (a vegetarian ordering the most expensive steak on the menu, enough said). And granted his steak was smaller than a hockey puck and just as hard, and my rabbit was over breaded and fried into oblivion, I assumed given his twenty something years on me and position he would pay. The check came he looked it over and asked if I needed my bag.

"My bag?" I cocked my head slightly the way a dog would if you issued a command he'd never heard.

"Yeah, for your wallet."

"Oh, I keep it in my pocket."

"Okay, so half and half then?" he said throwing a card down. The bus boy dropped the pitcher of water, every old lady in Atwood Cafe clutched her pearls, the queens one table over gasped, even the business men in the corner lowered their heads over their Macallan twelve years, the music stopped, the waitress screeched to a halt in front of the table. I kept my calm though. It's how we compose ourselves in moments of tragedy such as this that really define us as people. I was calm because of my golden rule:

Zack's golden dating rule: Never order a dinner you can't pay for, even if you don't think you're paying for it. 

I always bring enough cash to cover for a bad tip and keep a credit card on hand when on dates. I assume they will pay but I'd never order a meal I couldn't pay for myself. When I was in college I had no money, so regardless of how sure I was the man would pay I only ever ordered salads because that's all I could afford. Now, I take myself out for dinners at Ralph Lauren and The Gage and I can pay my own way. And somehow it bugs me more now when I've got to reach into my wallet on a first date.

I took his card out of the check presenter and threw it back on the table.

"I got this," I said. The waitress seemed hesitant to take my card. She game me the "are you sure?" look. Although I was sure about paying I wasn't sure if there'd be a date two after this one. Let me elaborate on why with yet another entry into my encyclopedia of undatable men-- previous entries including "Triennial Man" and "Coffee Date Guy"

Pay-Your-Way Guy

A well-to-do "gentleman" in his forties that, despite being gainfully employed, doesn't like to pick up the tab due to being either a cheapskate, or simply dating too many men. Will always ask to go half and half. Your two choices are to embarrass him by just paying for the whole thing yourself or annoy him by asking to split the bill by item (a poor choice as this will undoubtedly annoy the waitstaff as well).

Immediately dump any man that makes you pay on your first date. Do not pass go, do not see a movie, do not talk to him about it. Just go home and eat ice cream. And if he asks to split the bill evenly, don’t walk, run out of there (after paying your tab). This rule only applies to the first couple dates and it’s not so much a money issue as it is an issue of him not doing everything in his power to win your affection. If he’s more worried about saving fifty bucks than he is about impressing you you’re better off with Ben & Jerry.

I do have a crackpot theory about the recent insurgence of these types as I believe for me the situation is case-speciffic.

I'm about to turn 25, and now that I have officially reached a quarter of a century nobody will ever pay for my dinner again. When I renew my driver's license it will no longer say "Starving college grad" because I've been out of school for three years now, make plenty of money, and live in a better neighborhood than most of the guys I'm dating (not the doctor, I maintain he was just cheap). I think the problem, if it could be called that, is that too many guys see me as an equal to them now. In some stupid way it's almost a compliment that a man in his forties would let me pay for his dinner.

No, I take it back that's still an insult on a first date.

Still, I can't help but wonder if becoming the independent and self sufficient person I am has caused me to lose one of the qualities I used to rely on in relationships, being the young broke starving artist/ ingenue with quick wit and a bright future. Now I'm the marginally successful widely ignored and un-renowned writer of a hip self-absorbed blog. Clearly I'm just far too successful and well off for these men to not consider me an equal. I mean, being as established as I am how can I expect otherwise?

I may just have to suck it up. Like it or not I'm an adult with a Visa card and it looks like I'm going to be seeing a lot more of it in the years to come.

The economics of dating

In restaurants timing is everything. One minute can ruin a dinner, thirty seconds can ruin a drink, and a single miscalculation can ruin a tip for you. The single most important skill in serving is timing. A well timed meal can leave someone feeling satisfied and eager to come back. They spend the next few days telling everyone about the restaurant, the cool music, the great server. But the slightest glitch can ruin it, the drinks get backed up and the appetizer goes out before cocktails, you get triple sat and can't get the drinks refilled in time and in your scurrying around you forgot to fire the second course then they're starving by the time they get it, eat too fast and don't want dessert. They leave grumpy and talk about the horrible experience they had for the next few days. The drinks and food tasted exactly the same but if you mess with the order or run any item too soon or too late everything falls apart. And in an industry that is dictated by the time clock breakfast til ten drinks til twelve, anything that takes too much time is a boon.

In relationships, as well as restaurants, timing is crucial. There are a lot of "rules" floating around when it comes to dating. How long before you sleep with someone? How long before you show them your apartment? When do you introduce them to your mother? (Answer to all three: as late in the relationship as humanly possible) But really, it all comes down to timing. Or in the case of Zack v. the man who asked me out on a coffee date, it comes down to bad timing. If you are one of the 27 people who read my blog you know that I've recently ripped every man a new a-hole for going on coffee dates. And it came as poetic justice that later in the week I should be asked on yet ANOTHER coffee date after the one that set me off on a cafe au diatribe. And not in an ironic 'I-read-your-blog-by-the-way' kind of way.

I switched it up to drinks in a neutral neighborhood (a.k.a. boystown). He shows up, we seem to get along for the most part. I'm pretty much a shoe-in for Jewish men, they love me because I remind them of their mothers, one part yenta and one part Chinese food. The conversation and drink are flowing and then I made the rookie mistake of letting the conversation steer to politics. As someone who frequently dates men considerably older than myself I've learned which topics are simply taboo on first dates with guys in their forties:

1. Politics--in general politics are a bad topic for any date and any age range. This topic is in poor taste because

a.) most people (myself included) don't pay enough attention to what's going on to make accurate conversation about politics

b.) men view political conversations as pissing contests and will attempt to use ego-bolstering examples in arguments (e.g. "You wouldn't understand, you don't make as much money as I do," or my personal favorite, "You haven't lived long enough to understand that.") 

c.) political opinions are like assholes, everyone's got one

2. Ex boyfriends--actually this topic is never suitable for discussion. The correct answer is, we were happy until we weren't and then it was over. Book closed, question and answer portion of the program over.

3. Money-- most twenty somethings don't have any. No point in drawing any more attention to this fact by talking about it.

4. What I've been reading--self help books and GQ. This lets him know that you're a real down to earth person (i.e. moron). Inevitably he'll be compelled to talk about what he's reading. Faulkner. Did you want to talk about "Absalom, Absalom" on a first date? Didn't think so.

5. "When I was in high school..." The coup de grace of any date with an older man, -- which is to say, "not that long ago." This spirals down from here because what he was doing while you were in high school was being 35. Gets worse when he realizes you weren't alive when he was in high school. Suddenly his life starts flashing before his eyes and you're still on the first round of drinks.

Also, here's the complete list of what you did in high school:

a.) nothing

And of course I tried to make a sexual double entendre by bringing our political discussion to one about dominance by saying, "Well no matter what you do as a politician you're either fucking someone or getting fucked." My attempt at making a funny backfired hideously when he replied, "You're too young to make such a jaded assessment." This led the conversation to a dark place. I'm going to fast forward through about twenty minutes of philosophical babble to give you the basis for both of our arguments:

Me--"No I'm not."

Him--"Yes you are."

This conversation is also commonly known as anything you can do I can do better (because I'm older).

And sure enough the moment of truth presented itself. The bill was dropped between us. He who reaches first is the bigger person. Now if there is any rule I've learned about relationships it's to just let them be right, because it's better to be happy than right. So I ceded to his prowess in the argument of I'm older than you and therefore know more, and subsequently let him reach for the bill. I'm thinking this will go one of three ways:

1. He asks us to go dutch, in which case I assume he is not interested in a second date.

2. He pays for the bill, in which case I assume he is interested in a second date.

3. He puts the bill back down on a table without payment, in which case I pick it up and beat him over the head with it.

But no, his response to the dropping of the bill was so unintelligible and cheap that my head almost exploded over my drink.

Bill for two rounds of drinks: $25.00

What he throws down in cash on the check presenter: $13.00

I'm just going to assume that's all the cash he had crumpled in is pocket and was simply too exhausted from his workout earlier to lift a credit card from his card holder. It's in moments like these that I am torn between the diplomatic response and the response that embarrasses the other person. I, of course being a card carrying ball buster, threw the money back at him and put my own card down. With an eight dollar tip the bill came to $33.00. If you can't so much as drop 33 clams of a couple rounds of drinks you are fired and not eligible for rehire. Thanks for playing. You're a forty-five year old lawyer. You went to some of the top schools in the city. And, somehow, you managed to fail the economics of dating. It's not so much the amount of money as is is the stupidity of throwing some random amount of cash down and letting me deal with the rest.

Apparently this 45 year old minus 33 smackers equals not gonna happen.

And after I paid he basically ran out, hailed a cab and didn't even thank me. The man could not have run away faster. I looked at my watch. If I hurried I could still catch the last bit of Glee.

Anatomy of a coffee date.

Lets discuss coffee dates. I would like to add the coffee date to my growing encyclopedia of annoyances (volume 1), right in between walks through the park and McDonalds in the bad date idea section.

Coffee Date [kaw-fee deyt]:
noun

1. A platonic gesture shared between two or more friends interested in catching up and talking about harmless neutral topics. Slightly more intimate than lunch at a Thai food restaurant, but not as casual as grabbing a cocktail.

2. A bad date idea invented in the nineties during an influx and uprising of commercial coffee shops. This idea was invented by men who were going on too many dates and had to cut back on the average cost per date. Men who go on coffee dates usually look like this:

This idea of pre-screening potential partners on a virtual date simulation over cappuccinos is intended to mirror a romantic evening out without actually committing to a two hour meal or two hundred dollar bill at the end. Generally denotes that a man is either:

a. Dating far too many people
b. Unsure of whether or not you (implied date) are a worthy companion
c. Is exceedingly frugal
d. Works at a coffee shop

Any of these traits almost immediately disqualifies a man from being datable. However, a man who requests a coffee date can be dealt with in the following way. First we need to eliminate variables in the equation to determine whether or not this man is a scumbag and unworthy of a date. Is this a timing issue? This can be discerned by simply postponing the date,

"Why don't we do it another day when you have time to grab dinner or a cocktail (note that asking someone out for cocktails is usually as expensive as a dinner out so it's not to be lumped in the same category as coffee date)?"

If he is a decent man this will send a clear enough message to him that dinner or drinks is an acceptable first date. However if he declines to reschedule as a dinner (i.e. lets grab coffee before I go to work, lets grab lunch [lunch date is another bag of worms, if thats the case this one's DNR]) then you simply need to figure out if he is a, b, c, d, or a combination from the list above.

Ask to reschedule the time to Friday or Saturday night when you have "the most free time." If both of those nights are unavailable he is dating too many people and is trying to fold you into the mix. If he agrees, but insists on Saturday evening coffee ask him to meet you at an expensive hotel restaurant that has "the most amazing cappuccinos and biscotti you've ever had." Both the Peninsula and Four Seasons are great choices and you'll be able to sneak in a dessert too. If he backs off from that option it means he is just cheap and not interested in impressing you. At this point you're best saying that you don't know if you'll be available and you can get back to him.

I've found that the best way to deal with any guy that is behaving badly is to just cancel a plan or be unavailable for a week. If they don't reach out to you to set up another date after that then they should be filed away in the file of lost causes. And if you really liked the guy have no fear, because in six months he will send you another message out of the blue asking if you want to get coffee.

Macerated Beignets

In coffee the cream rises to the top. In restaurants the bullshit usually does. Here's the problem: if you are too good at your job nobody will ever promote you. It's always the person who is second (or third) best at their job that gets promoted. The hospitality industry in general is one that fosters an environment of bullshitters, resume fudgers, car salesman personalities. You would think this might turn out disastrous but in our industry our job is basically to bullshit. I bullshit for a living.

Example: I am trained to use stupid fancy-sounding overly articulate culinary mumbo jumbo words to describe everyday things. Ketchup with bacon in it becomes tomato bacon jam. A fluffy waffle is a waffle soufflé. If our chef scrapes a dog turd off the bottom of his shoe its a fecal compote.

Here's what my life would sound like if I described it the way I do our menu:

Wednesday morning:

An aromatic blend of sultry coffee from India, lightened by a dollop of Matt Lauer and Savannah Guthrie, and sweetened by approximately twenty minutes of leisurely Internet exploration.

This course is followed by a ritualistic removal of fresh homemade cat dumplings, breaded in 100% organic almond litter. A mist of zesty odor neutralizer invigorates and tantalizes the senses.

On the side there is a locally sourced newspaper on a bed of imported literature from Japan, followed by a surf and turf of crisp mint tooth polishing agent and a shot of freshening firewater sure to set your enamel ablaze.

Its not that I lie or misrepresent our food, it's that I describe it into oblivion. I pummel the guest with nonstop one-two descriptors of adjectives and foodie words. Take any of these words:

Carmelized, braised, zesty, fire-roasted, slow-cooked, locally sourced, melted, pickled, crystallized, fermented, iced, glazed, whipped, smoked, scented, macerated.

And combine it with any of these words:

Au jus, truffle, mascarpone, confit, pork belly, short rib, reduction, crudités, bisque, soufflé, glacé, charcuterie, nicoise, tenderloin, purée, compote, beignets.

And you have probably just described a menu item. See, its not that hard! And if you have a penchant for describing things and wearing an apron you may have a future in the restaurant business. But don't worry, if over articulating a doughnut is not your thing theres a multitude of other departments and positions in the hospitality industry to accommodate a diverse community of bullshitters.

Maybe food is your thing but you don't have a personality, sounds like banquets is the place for you. If you have a poor command of English or just like wearing stiff unflattering uniforms then housekeeping is your best bet. And if you like wearing suits and making people uncomfortable then congratulations, you may have a future in upper management.

All joking aside it can sometimes be frustrating to see who makes it through the exhaustive interview process. I say this with no exaggeration: it is harder to get a job in our hotel than it is to get a job at the pentagon. You interview with two different managers who are looking for two completely different things and if by some stroke of luck they both like you there is a personality survey as well as an HR interview designed to weed out anybody with any personality defect whatsoever. Each job has a different score you must achieve on what I like to call the bullshit survey. Because although there may be psychological merit to asking someone if they are addicted to smiling, questions like those really only test your ability to bullshit. Is anyone addicted to smiling? Not without hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of plastic surgery and a prescription for Xanax.

Case in point here is an example of someone who might apply to be a director of food and beverage: a straight talking new Yorker with twenty years hard experience managing new and established concepts, has worked at the four seasons, lettuce entertain you, anything with Ian Schraeger's name on it. Knows everything from fine dining to tapas. A list of glowing recommendations from two hotel gms Oprah and Billy Dec. Very tell-it-like-it-is personality. This person refuses to bullshit and therefore does not pass the personality survey and is rejected from the position. Goes on to open another successful restaurant.

Now here is an example of someone who would actually get hired: Ambiguously trained and employed "restaurant manager" with "ten years experience" doing restaurant stuff at a list of places nobody has ever heard of. Moved here from middle of nowhere Iowa. Very smooth talker, good at getting people to like him. Completely talentless and has a fake it til you make it mentality. Usually some upwardly mobile thirty something wearing an ill fitted suit. Passes our bullshit survey with such high marks that hiring managers are willing to look past questionable blips on resume. You better believe this person copped to being addicted to smiling.

I'm not saying this person is inadequate for the job. They will most likely do a mediocre to so-so job, which in this industry is grounds for promotion.

Anatomy of a booty call

I yelled at someone with cancer the other day so aside from the inevitable guilt to follow I'm am surely on a bullet train to hell. A guy that I know--

Guy that I know: (n.) man from the age of 25-50 that I have most likely met in the biblical sense and fails to fall into the category of a husband, boyfriend, friend, acquaintance, mailman or doctor.

--sent me a message asking me to come over, presumably for, well, let's call it watching tv. Here's the deal, I love 'watching tv' but I'm not going to be watching tv all over town like I used to. I try to limit my television time to people I know well and people I'm in a relationship with. So right off the bat I come from a place of no on the watching tv together issue. Other factors include:

A.) You live in a pain in the ass faraway land called Andersonville that is a 30 minute train ride and ten minute walk away, or I can spend twenty dollars for a cab one way. So you are not accessible to me.

Also: I am not a delivery service guaranteed hot and under 30 minutes.

B.) You haven't spoken to me in months leading me to believe you were dead, and henceforth I mourned the loss of your 11:50pm tv watching texts.

C.) You weren't even going to tell me you had cancer I had to find out running into you at a store in passing. I then sent two messages checking in which were subsequently ignored thus confirming my hypothesis that you had died. Show's over folks, curtain down, I laughed, I cried, I bought the tee shirt.

D.) Your apartment looks like this:

And what is the guy's rebuttal to my new anti-schtupping clause? "C'mon throw me a pity lay." oh okay, well when you put it that way. I informed him that for that kind of arrangement to work I would in fact have to pity him. Which is-- just, yeah not in this lifetime.

Then, next exhibit in the case of zack v. The 11:50 booty call (aka inconsiderate-o-clock): " I thought we were friends." So obviously this man has a very "loose" definition of the word friend. I'd love to see the dictionary that describes the last 5 years with this goof as a friendship.

The last 5 years:

1. We dated

2. You broke up with me because you met someone cuter

3. You continued to sleep with me despite dating someone cuter

4. You've never once come to a birthday party of mine, had a drink with me, gotten lunch, or sent me a holiday card

5. You continue to hit me up for the next four years in a 100% not a friend tv watching only way

6. You are apparently gobsmacked when I alert you to the fact that we are not friends.

So that happened, I read him the riot act. Great chat, let's have it again in four months when you hit me up again. And I know I should feel bad, cancer and all but he can't throw that in my face, because what was the excuse before? Obviously he exhausted all other hookup options dredged my number out of the dusty call in case of emergency booty book and wanted to roll me out like an understudy.

Yet another candidate for the unrepentant sinner file.

Time to Read

I blame Facebook. I blame Facebook and all social media that most people are incredibly bad at being friends. Facebook specifically though has just made us all so lazy. I am old fashioned. If I have news I'm calling, I'm telling someone in person I'm sending the carrier pigeons. I'm making sure the people in my life know things. The important people get a call on their birthday. And I would like to have a text message, and e-mail, a whatever, specifically targeted at me saying hey, I moved or I'm getting married, or I've got three months to live. I'm irritated every time I pass someone by on the street I haven't seen ask how they're doing and how they're doing is engaged to someone I didn't even know they were dating because I don't read their Facebook. And they tell me like, oh yeah I got engaged by the way. Like it's a pedicure or something you do all the time.

And then comes the look. The look is a mix of horror, shock, resentment and a sprinkling of pity, blended into one and all in reaction to the news that you didn't read it on Facebook. I would just like to know who the hell are these people who have so much time to sit and read on Facebook. I can't even finish the New York Times most days and I'm supposed to sit down and read about your Farmville lost sheep or whatever. It takes me about three months to finish a book because I can't find the time to just sit my ass down and read, I have an entire shelf on my bookshelf of books that I haven't read yet--20 books long. And lets not even talk about my e-reader, I can barely finish an issue of GQ (mostly for lack of interest in the articles than anything though). And people have the nerve to give me a look when I say that no, I do not read your Facebook.

First of all I had an Android phone that collected my tweets, Facebook updates, e-mails, blogs, and Huffington Post articles in one simple news feed. That newsfeed was busier than the Minneapolis airport bathroom. There were about 300 pages of crap to sift through everyday my updates widget was like trying to read war and peace on my way to work. After that woeful year (and phone) I gave up on trying to stay abreast of "the haps." And God bless you people who can read all that. I don't know how you can keep it all straight. I can't even stomach ninety percent of the stuff that I see on Facebook. It's either too political, or too personal to really be sharing online. I don't want to know about you lifelong struggles with Crohn's disease on Facebook, I don't want to know about your Yeast infection or your divorce. Call the people you really care about and tell them and let the rest find out the good old fashioned way: through gossip.

I feel that town yentas like myself have no job to do since the advent of the social megaphone known as Facebook. 'Did you hear about--' of course you heard about it, the M-F posted it on Facebook and tweeted it from here to kingdom come. And here I am posting stupid pictures of my cat and shamelessly promoting my blog and pictures of appetizers and other nonsense that has no importance. So it comes as a surprise when I hear that one of my best friends is engaged, and miss Sadie Sadie married lady over there hasn't called or told me. I have to find out, horror of horrors, on Facebook amidst all the schlock. It felt a little like a snub at first because I'm thinking okay I'm clearly not getting the news on the first round, I'm not in the A-list. And then it occurred to me, what if she only changed her relationship status on Facebook and that was the only notification anyone got? And what if I skipped Facebook today because I was too busy brushing my cat or something I just wouldn't have known?

I wasn't going to take this lightly. I picked up the phone, called my friend--cool as a cucumber martini mind you-- and sort of casually mentioned that I was coming back home, doing a dinner for my birthday and love for you to join. Didn't say a thing about the engagement, which for me was like trying to not finish a bag of potato chips once you start. I want to know everything. What time, what were you wearing, where were you, what were you thinking, what were you eating what was the weather forecast that day, everything. So, I await the call back and miss it while I was at work. I listened to the voicemail. In the very last sentence before hanging up she says, 'Not a lot's going on with me, oh yeah I'm engaged, talk soon.'

Okay, if I ever get engaged, I'm telling everyone. I'm telling your parents. I'm telling my barber. I'm telling my doorman. I'm telling the chinese takeout place across the street. I'm telling every single person I see. I am sending texts, and voicemails, and snail mail, and e-mail, an tweeting it and instagram, livejournal, myspace, I'm starting a fanclub for my engagement ring, I'm calling page six, I'm telling the guy bagging my groceries, I'm gonna take out an ad in the paper. If you are reading this I am probably going to tell you. I'll tell you til you're blue in the face. Let it be known that you will know--whoever you are--if I get engaged.

I opened up Facebook, went to my friend's page and read every single post for the last month. I figure what's the problem with skipping one article in the Times if I can know what the hell is going on in my friends' lives?

Getting burned or getting fitted

I have a saying about the kitchen: you burn yourself once, and you'll never do it again. People never burn themselves on the same plate twice. The same goes for relationships. A smart person will get their heart broken once and it'll never happen again. It has, of course, only happened to me once. And now that it's been broken I can't help but wonder if I've lost something in the dating process. It feels a lot different now than it did 5 years ago. I think it's because each time I go on a date I get a little smarter and a little less emotional. And although I'd rather make decisions with my brain than with any other organ in my body I can't help but wonder if at a certain age, after a certain number of breakups, are relationships more about thinking than feeling?

And from thinking without feeling to feeling without thinking I was having a spiritual moment at Nordstrom with a pea green Thom Browne blazer. Cutting through Nordstrom has become my most logical route home from work, taking me "the scenic" path, only two or three blocks out of the way back to my condo from the restaurant. I'm a Nordstrom boy at heart. Even though Barney's has better clothes and Saks has better sales you just can't beat Nordstom, in all areas except for the sales people. Although friendly, they are some of the most aggressive pushy salespeople in the city. It's like going shopping with my grandmother trailing behind offering commentary and trying to nudge me into buying something I don't want or need.

I'm am going to break it down for you in a very battle of the sexes way. The difference between male and female salespeople:

1. Greeting
Male: "Good afternoon, is there anything I can help you with?"
Female: "Hi, I'm Delores, do you need help with anything, what are you looking for today, can I get another size for you or anything just let me know if you need anything okay, my name's Delores!"

2. Selection
Male: "Try the Magnanni shoes instead, they are much more comfortable than the Cole Haan."
Female: "I love that, I know it fits like a burlap sack and it looks horrible on you but it costs more than the other one so clearly it must be better right? Also my boyfriend has one and it looks so good on him. My boyfriend also has that shirt over there, see it? You should dress like my boyfriend. Did I tell you I have a boyfriend?"

3. Sizing
Male: "That jacket is very trim, I'd recommend going a size up."
Female: "We're out of the small, medium, and large, but I think an XL would look good on you."

4. Description
Male: "This peak lapel is a little more formal, but it follows after the London influence."
Female: "Neon is so now and of the moment. And plaids. My boyfriend wears a lot of plaids."

5. Resume
Male: "Men's Warehouse, Bloomingdales suit dept., Neiman Marcus men's furnishings"
Female: "Filene's Basement, Victoria's Secret, Crate and Barrel kitchen furnishings"

6. Checkout
Male: "Here is my business card, feel free to call if you have any merchandise questions."
Female: "Here is my business card, and I wrote my boyfriend's blog on there too which is great, it's like pictures of food that he eats all over the place, and I also wrote my cell on there if you like wanna get coffee or something and if you ever want any clothes just come in and I'll hook you up. Okay, hugsies!"

Joking aside, I find it incredibly inappropriate when women are working in the men's clothing department. It sounds like a double standard but there are some key differences in how women shop that makes them an unreliable source when it comes to men's clothing. For example: women shop for occasions--a specific outfit with an event in mind. Men shop for their wardrobe--this article of clothing will be worn several times and several different ways with a handful of other things they have in the closet already. Also, despite what you may think men's clothes are far more expensive than women's. Case in point:

The female outfit:
Dress, $150.00
Total cost of an outfit to wear to dinner: $150.00

The male outfit:
Shirt, $80.00. Tie, $60.00 Blazer, $200.00. Jeans, $150.00.
Total cost of an outfit to wear to dinner: $490.00

It stands to reason that the best and brightest sales representatives would be where the clothing is all around more expensive. But no, Carly the bubbly 20-something is there with a tape measure draped around her neck with what I can only assume is an ironic affectation. So where are all the talented sales people in Nordstrom? Here is the ranking of where the most talented people go:

1. Women's shoes
2. Women's purses
3. Dress department
4. Women's casual
5. Perfume & Cologne
6. The kids department
7. The pets department
8. The cafe
9. The men's department

It is the common belief that men do not enjoy shopping. I have another theory about this. The experience of shopping is made so uncomfortable, annoying, expensive, and often fruitless for men that they resent it. I mean imagine you're a guy. You see a really cool blazer on another guy on the train and you want that blazer. You go to Nordstrom to see if they have it. A female sales associate doesn't know the difference between lapels, pocket types or which designers are better fitted to which builds. A blazer is a blazer is a blazer. Instead of finding what you want she puts a $1200 Givenchy blazer on you. It's not what you want. You say you want around the 2-300 dollar range. She comes back with a Diesel blazer that has zippers on it. You tell her you want something you can actually wear to work. She comes back with an ill-fitted plain navy Nordstrom brand blazer. You vow never to go shopping again.

In relationships, over time we develop tastes and aversions. Men have an aversion to overly emotional clingy people. But they often have a taste for outgoing, laid back people with a good sense of humor. They are easy to train. Does it feel good to them? They have a taste for it. Does it feel bad? They have an aversion. And when it comes to shopping isn't it just, in some way an extension of all our other relationships? In my case tedious, unfulfilling and way too expensive.

Piss off

Experts say that cats cannot act out in vengeance or punish their owners with their bad behavior. It is my belief that these so called experts have never owned a cat like mine. They say that cats are simply not wired that way, that vengeance is to complicated a thought for cats to manage. I think that cats are simply so smart that they've managed to fool us all by behaving like little angels around experts and then when an average ordinary person adopts them they turn crazy. The five am crazies, nonstop guff, begging for food, demanding attention when you're busy with something else and rejecting attention when you're available. These creatures are designed to make people lose their minds.

A friend of mine told me that for the rest of my life I'll think I smell cat pee, even when I don't, no matter where I go. It's like the smell will haunt me. I have a theory about this. Cat owners can smell urine from a mile away, we're like fine tuned barometers for pee conditions. I swear if a squirrel pisses in the woods in Wisconsin I know about it and I've got a bottle of Resolve and I'm on my knees in two seconds. It's like a gun shot, I just hit the floor and start spraying--clean now ask questions later. I'm like the farmers almanac for pee, I can tell you what fire hydrant on what block and which breed of dog and what the dog was thinking when he did it.

My cat sprays on the bathroom floor and I bolt out of bed like don't wake daddy and have completely mopped up the mess in under a minute and am back to sleep before the cat's finished wiping his paws off (usually on some article of my clothing). But worst is that now the kitty bombings are so frequent that I have to run away before I get hit by the cat's friendly fire, when he kicks litter all over me whenever I'm in the bathroom doing anything. My cat's poor etiquette has led to an almost neurotic hyperactive sense of smell. It could also be that after quitting smoking I smell things now that I never used to smell before.

I think that the first thing most ex-smokers realize if they live in a city is, "Wow, this place stinks." No wonder people in cities smoke. It's not to satisfy our nervous tendencies with an addiction that makes us appear cool or sexy, its to try and mask the smell of the city with cigarette smoke. And lets face it there's no accessory that is more chic and timeless than a lit cigarette. Exhibit A:

I want to be clear, I don't ever regret quitting. The two cigarettes I've had since quitting have been miserable, it tastes awful after you've regained your palate, it makes you cough and sound like a geriatric. I have no desire to take it up again. And truth be told I don't think that cigarettes ever appealed to me chemically. I like having something in my hand at all times. It used to be if you saw me anywhere in the city I'd be holding one of three things: a cigarette, a Starbucks, or a credit card. I'm always doing something with my hand. Now, it's a safe bet you won't see me out in Chicago unless I'm out of coffee creamer or going on a date.

Living in a big city like Chicago you'd think eligible bachelors would be like cabs, all over the place, easy to find, if you miss one another's right behind it. But the dates are sparse, and often unrewarding. The first date exists for two reasons: a boy's gotta eat, and a boy's gotta judge. I want a hot meal and a hot man. And I'll settle for lukewarm if the conversation's good. A few nights ago I went on a date, basically a blind date, with someone I met online. He seemed nice, normal, whatever. He worked for an airline so I just assumed he was a flight attendant. Really I don't care what they do for a living, I don't really care too much about looks, if they're wearing a crappy outfit I can look past it as long as they meet me one criteria.

Zack's one criteria for if a man is datable:

1. Is he a psychopath?

If the answer is no then he is datable, if the answer is yes I'll probably go on a date with him anyway. And I won't say my date was psychopathic, actually he was just uncomfortably inappropriate. I counted  and he used the 'N word' a total of ten times throughout the meal. I'm not by any means a beacon of political correctness. In fact working in food and beverage has instilled in me a sort of heightened tolerance to racial tensions, off color jokes, and all things ghetto-fab. My threshold for these things is extremely high. I've seen, served, and been given shitty tips by people of all walks of life and I will judge them all equally, which is to say A LOT.

If, for example, someone simply had to use the word faggot for humorous emphasis I don't mind. And because typing around the word is stupid and I sound like a very uptight news anchor I'm just going to type it, I've heard plenty of jokes using the word nigger. I think the infrequency of use makes the word more shocking or offensive than it actually is. But never the less, it's used, it's sometimes funny, but I would never use it in everyday rhetoric. As I writer I have a respect for all words and their time and their place. I don't go around saying fuck all the time, not because I'm polite or classy but because when I need to use the word fuck I want someone's ears to ring. And if you say it too much the effect just becomes lessened.

So through the course of the conversation the overt frustration over races other than his own became increasingly apparent and I was inclined to just keep my mouth shut, but of course when have I ever been able to do that. So when he stopped and tried to apologize for being so inappropriate (which I honestly would have respected him more if he just owned the behavior, don't do something you know is bad and follow it with an apology) all I could say was,

"No, I think Chicago is a great city to move to if you hate black people."

"Isn't it?" he replied. 

I was honestly ready to just get up and leave. This person is clearly crazy to sit across from me and so comfortably use every imaginable racial slur and then just act like nothing had happened. I thought I was being punked. I'm thinking, come on who put you up to this? Or is this how you act and talk everywhere you go? And also, how the hell do you work for an airline if you only like white people?

So the next day I forgot to return his text message, and avoided responding to the one a day later. And of course soon after I get the crazy person response. The, "I'm moving to Poughkeepsie so I don't even care that you didn't respond to me but I just think you should grow up and I didn't even like you that much anyway and I wish you wouldn't have let me pay for dinner." I would like to absolve myself of responsibility for the last one because A. you were ridiculous, I look at the price of dinner as ridiculous tax and B. you offered to pay idiot, I'm not gonna reach into my wallet when someone offers to pay.  I would also like to say that crazy immature people are the only ones that ever tell you to grow up.

I deleted the message and went to hang out with the only normal man in my life, my cat Gucci.

Little Pissers

Everyone remembers a certain shower scene from Psycho. You know, this one:

Well, I have found the equivalent for cat owners everywhere. I am in the shower singing Maybe This Time, for maybe the twentieth time, enjoying my new soap from Lush. The soap smells like grass, and citrus, its calming I'm enjoying my nice long relaxing shower. And then, silently, an evil man steps into the bathroom with a malicious intent. I don't hear him enter and continue singing until something seems off. My senses tell me that I am not alone. I throw open the shower curtain just in time to see Gucci shoot out of the litter box like an orange cannonball, leaving a big old stank mess in his litter.

Cue scream.

It is exactly this behavior that has earned him a new nickname, Monster, or Scary Monster alternatively.  And this deposit he so lovingly makes every day, and only when I am in the shower, has earned the name "The Kitty-Bomb." This behavior is unnatural. Cats like to do their business in private. They don't want you around, they don't want any witnesses to the crime so to speak. And it is a crime against my delicate nasal palate. I'm trying to enjoy my thirty dollar soap sans cat stank. And whereas most cats want nothing to do with their owner in the bathroom, mine will only use the bathroom when I am in it now, which is just another symptom of Gucci's weird dysfunctional bladder issues. 

I'm brushing my teeth at night, I get kitty bombed. I stumble into the bathroom early in the morning to pee, kitty runs in after me and kicks litter on my feet. And it's not just a scatological obsession, my cat seems to want to do everything together. When I am eating my dinner (take-out sushi) he wants to eat his dinner as well (my take-out sushi). If I step into the kitchen to pour a glass of water he runs in after me and starts gulping water as if he's been dehydrated all day and he was simply waiting for the go-ahead to drink something. No matter what I'm doing kitty insists on being involved. At first it was flattering, all this kitty imitation. But now it's annoying.

If I'm watching bad TV and eating ice cream at night I'd like to do it in peace, and without cat involvement. But no, kitty refuses to believe that I can be seated anywhere without him in my lap. And, taking a break from attachment issues in the kitty department, I deal with detachment issues in the relationship department. I got a text the other night from one of my many unrepentant sinners. An unrepentant sinner is a man who screwed me over at some point in the past, never apologized, and doesn't contact me for months, or in this case years, and finally sends a message out of the blue as if no time has passed.

And like a kitty bomb in the litter box, I get a different kind of bomb dropped in my inbox. This unrepentant sinner messages me asking me to meet him for a drink. Just like that, lets get a drink, like nothing ever happened. I knew just how to deal with this situation.

Step one: Tell him to meet you at a ritzy pricey hotel bar, even better if it's a little out of the way. The Drake or the W are good choices. Make sure you pick a meeting time that is very late at night. This will no doubt be misconstrued as a one drink minimum at club booty call.

Step two: Await a message informing you that he has arrived at the bar. Respond telling him you're a minute away and ask him to order you a Belvedere martini, extra olives.

Step three: Turn off your phone.

Step four: brush your teeth and go to bed, awake feeling rested and better than ever.