last night

Last night, I went to a blues concert. I didn't really know what I was going to watch but ended up happily surprised I was really enjoying it. It was an homage to Dinah Washington, but I admit I had no clue who that was... and the songs were from the 40s and 50s. All very bluesy, very jazzy, very sexy. And most of the stories behind the songs where, of course, about love. The woman who waits for the phone to ring. The one who wonders if the guy is going to decide if they are together, or not. The other who wants her man to decide between her and getting drunk with the boys. The woman who loves a man she really isn't supposed to love. Sounds familiar?

How many times have I called my best friend to say oh my god, I have to tell you what happened last night. I met this guy and we hit off and he took my number and I'm sure he's gonna call don't you think he's going to call? Or she calls me to tell me that last night, she saw her ex, and she knows she shouldn't have but they ended up going back to his place and now she doesn't know where they're at. Oh the drama. So much fun.

Last night I met a boy and it was love at first sight. Last night he said I love you. Last night we had a fight. Last night he broke up with me. Last night I saw my ex for the first time.

Last night I was very tipsy. And I openly talked (and at one point, shouted) about my sex life with the Rats --and it's not entirely impossible that the other twelve people who were in the bar all got a very detailed report about it too.

Last night, I kissed a boy and he fell.  Literally, fell, in the middle of the street, as we were kissing, with about three dozen people watching in astonishment. I have that effect on boys sometimes.

Last night, I was with four couples. And it only felt weird for a second, when I realized I was the odd one out. But then I also realized that I didn't care at all. I felt genuinely happy for them and genuinely happy for myself. They have each other. I have my stories. For now.

Cigar Sunday

Nothing like a Sunday afternoon spent with the Rats on their traditional "Cigar Sunday" to give me material for a post. Especially when guest-rats, who were visiting for Easter Weekend, were added to the pack. I could barely keep up with the stories.

It was kind of the "kick-off" for the Spring/Summer season, which in terms of dating is especially fun. Like Wiserat says, in winter, you just want to have someone you can curl up with and watch a movie under the covers. But when the sun is shinning and every other girl in town is showing off her legs and her cleavage, the Rats want come out to play. My friend the Masochist, who missed his plane a couple of days ago and was stuck overnight in a shitty hotel in Egypt, made friends with another unfortunate passenger, and to pass the time, she started telling him her life story. Including this particularly interesting breakup: her ex-boyfriend tells her one day "You know honey, I really love you... but it's summer now." Kind of says it all, doesn't it?


It is difficult to describe Cigar Sunday into words that would do it justice. At 5pm, it was three cigars, three Rats, and a couple of Almaza bottles at a corner table in Torino Express. By 7pm, three dozen shots of Tequila Gold had passed around, one round of AK47s, glasses of Arak, Jim Beam and vodka were spread on two tables and half the bar, as the party of three turned into a gathering of 15. My friend the Swiss, who is wired to flirt 24/7 no matter what, announced that he was currently dating an eighteen-year-old who is still in high-school. "I have the same conversations with her as with every other girl I dated who were my age," he said, defending her level of maturity. Tells you a lot about the girls he likes to date. He also managed to tell us, in the same sentence, that he "loved" his 18-year-old girlfriend, and that he had scored some girl the night before at three in the morning. Three shots later, there was talk about condoms and the tricks they play in order to get away with not wearing one. Educated men justifying the fact that if a girl asks you to wear a condom, to them that means it's pretty safe to do it without one. There was lusting over a gorgeous girl who walked in with her fiance. And, last but not least, there was a rating of girls in terms of how many drinks they need to have before they can "bang her." Like the Masochist says: "There are no ugly women. Just not enough alcohol."

There is no real morale to this post. Just maybe, I'd say, that although not all men are Rats, there is a Rat in every man.

first date

I've wrecked my brains on this one, and the sad truth is, I can't find a single topic that inspires me to amuse you. I've run dry. I don't know if it's writer's block, but i can't seem to put two words together to form a sentence. So I've decided to go back in time, salvage a story from the past that is not tainted by my currently notorious anger/bitterness towards men. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the first date. Uncensored, and 100% based on true events.

New York, May 2008. I had never been on a date before in my life. Not because I never dated anyone, I just thought actual "dates" where more of an American movie type of thing... but then again, I had lived in New York for two years and I had never been asked on a date. Anyway, this was my first time.
Some background: I was a freelance journalist working in Manhattan, and writing an article about successful Lebanese businessmen. One of my interviews was over the phone with a Certain Fellow who was 38 years-old, huge success story, millionaire and what-not, and so obviously single. It's funny how these men who are obsessively career driven for twenty years wake-up at the eve of their fortieth birthday and sweat the fact that they are all alone. Anyway... this man who was across the world in Dubai asks me if he can take me out to dinner when he comes to New York a few weeks later. And I, feeling a little Carrie Bradshaw style, being a writer in Manhattan and all, got carried away by the thought... maybe he was my Mr. Big?
Three weeks later, the Certain Fellow arrives in New York, ready to dine me and wine me. We meet up at the Four Seasons hotel, and I recognize him from the picture he sent me for the article. Except he is wearing a leather jacket and trying to act hip although he is hitting 40, and he looks it... I tell myself this will be an interesting experience.  We are chauffered down in a limo to a new hip restaurant in Tribeca. I was nervous I could hardly breathe, so, of course, I downed the first drink he offered me as we waited for a table. What the hell are first dates all about anyway? For this man, apparently, it was an audition for finding himself a suitable wife. Did I cook? Did I love Beirut? Where would I want to live? I wasn't sure if I felt dizzy by the vodka or his questions. We were seated on a corner table, on a bench, which means we were right next to each other --awkward. By the time the main course came, I had had three drinks and my cheeks were feeling numb. He asked me to tell him something about myself. I told him a had written a book when I was 13. He asked me what it was called. I told him, "I believe in angels." He looked into my eyes, and uttered the single, cheesiest, most cringing line anyone has ever tried: "Now I believe in angels..." (did you gag yet?)
I kid you not. These were his words. I was so tipsy I think I burst out laughing, and he took it as a good sign, leaned over and kissed me. I ordered another drink. He was in a hurry to get the bill. I saw him take out his black credit-card, and laughed silently, remembering my roommate who had warned me I would see a black-credit card with this guy.
The ride back in the limo is a little blurry --there was some making out, I'm sure, because we ended up back at the Four Seasons, which is definitely not where I lived.
Now I know I said uncensored, but I will spare you some details. The bottom line is, I was beyond tipsy, I fell asleep on a super comfortable bed in a suite in one of the biggest hotels in New York, and there was one Certain Fellow who was fairly disappointed by the failed magic of his black card.
I woke up slightly confused about where I was. It was 7am, and the Certain Fellow was back in business mode, on the phone and typing emails and getting dressed all at once. I put on my heels, dreading the walk of shame I had ahead of me.
And as a grand finale, just as I stepped out of the Four Seasons, with the trailer of my own movie playing in my head, I tripped. I fell, at 7 in the morning, on the steps of the grandiose hotel, in front of all the concierges, valets, and taxi drivers passing by, wearing a mini black dress and high heel shoes.
And I smiled, because I could think of no better way to end this excruciatingly cliche moment of my life. 

The exception to the rule

I feel like writing silly again. Not that I don't enjoy pouring my heart-out and making people cry with my posts, but from time to time, I prefer to get back to funny rhapsodies about men and women and dating and playing and breaking hearts. Unfortunately, I've had very little material to work with lately. The Rats aren't being much of Rats, or at least they're not feeding my inspiration enough. And the girls, well all seems to be going well for most of them. Which is great, but makes poor blog-value.
But my friend Rebellious fell head over heals in love in the last two weeks, and I think that's worth a mention. There's been a lot of back and forth all year long, cuties, hotties, very cool guys, sometimes for months at a time, but something was lacking. And then, out of nowhere, and completely unexpected, she met Prince Charming. From the first moment they met, it felt different.
And that made me think: Yeah, I spent a lot of time talking about the game, being a bitch, following the "rules," deciphering what makes a love story work. But here's what I realize now: most of the time, when it's actually going to turn into a love story, it's very different from the start. So many times, when we're lonely, when we're looking, when we're almost desperately searching for the one, we meet lots of okay guys that we set-up in our heads as being great. We try to play the game, we ask our Rats what to write in this text message, how long to wait before calling back; then we analyze every other word he says with every other person we meet. And all it's such a big effort on our part and we don't even realize it. Because most of the time, you try too hard and it dies down because it wasn't even worth trying for in the beginning. When you meet someone whose okay, you should see it for what it is: a fling, a one night stand, maybe a few months of casual dating.
And once in a blue moon, you meet someone, and it clicks. There's instantly that notorious chemistry and it's always felt both ways. There's a different vibe to the flirting, it feels easier, more natural, and if there's a game being played, it's instinctive. When you meet that person, you're a lot more confident about the way he feels about you, because you feel it. No need to analyze and no need to think a million times before acting. It's effortless and it's wonderful.
It's the exception to the rule. And all the other times should be recognized for what they are, to avoid useless disappointment. We shouldn't settle for making the okay-guy great. We should be a little patient, and have a little faith. You know what they say: it always comes when least expected.