Tune in to Kathie Lee and Hoda on the Today Show tomorrow morning at 10:30am if you want to feast your eyes on me and my wingman! And be sure to come back Friday to see the brand new website… it’ll have pink lace, new posts, and maybe even some pictures of me lounging around looking like an author.
GRANNY IS MY WINGMAN is out in one week! But if you’re feeling antsy you can pre-order now you want to take a ride to TMI city, where the gossip is heavy and the girls are silly!
Ever since puberty struck I’ve had a thing for older men. It started with Mike Catrambone; he was the first guy I swapped spit with. It didn’t matter that I was four inches taller than him or that his braces gave him a slight lisp, he was fourteen and I was twelve and that was all I needed to know to make out with him under the docks at sleep away camp.
After little Michael, the streak continued. I like mature men, men with experience, men with some wisdom that can inspire me. In all my dating years I have never been out with a guy my age and certainly had never considered going out with anyone younger. This was until a very sexy, talented friend of mine gushed to me about how much she was enjoying her boy toy. “I get to be the boss,” she bragged. “Everywhere except in the bedroom.”
This arrangement appealed to me. I’m fairly controlling, I wouldn’t mind having a young lad at my beck and call. My feet are not going to massage themselves. I’m 25; I think it’s safe to say I have a few years left until dating a younger man would qualify me as a cougar.
When Chad messaged me on OKCupid I saw he was a handsome young chap, his brown eyes struck me as murky pools filled with profound mystery and maturity. He was wearing nicely tailored suits in three out of four of his pictures. Menswear gets me hot.
His profile wasn’t showy or heavy on details but it still intrigued me. He wrote that he was “an Englishman living in New York”. Well dressed with an accent? Somebody slap me.
When I noticed that he was 22 I was bummed and ready to click onwards to the next but then I thought back to my friend and reconsidered. Why not? That’s the beauty of online dating; you have nothing to lose by trying out men who typically wouldn’t fit your mold.
I agreed to meet Chad for a drink. The bar was crowded when I arrived so I messaged him, “I’m the girl in the blue striped shirt.” When I looked up I saw a young boy with a Justin Beiber inspired hair-do scanning the bar. I looked to my left and right and noticed there were four other girls wearing blue striped shirts. The nautical look is taking over.
I let him sweat it for a moment, his cheeks turning a rosy shade of red. I finally raised my hand and he awkwardly rushed over in a flustered Michael Cera-style, his cheeks reddening with every step. He didn’t look like the confident suit-wearing fella from his pictures; he looked like the missing member to a boy band.
When we started chatting I immediately noticed there was no hint of an accent coming from the man-child. When I brought it up he broke out into a fit of nervous laughter and explained that he moved to the states with his family when he was six. I thought it was unfair of him to refer to himself as an “Englishman” in his profile but I let it slide because he was clearly on edge.
“What are you doing in the city?” I asked.
This brought on another series of giggles, “I just graduated college,” he said, looking away as if he didn’t want to embarrass me, the older woman.
Every question I asked him evoked bashful and embarrassed responses. I was doing the regular: “Where you from? Where do you hang out? What neighborhood do you live in?…” But by the reactions he was giving an onlooker would have thought I was asking him how many times a day he masturbates.
My presence was obviously making him uncomfortable. I think I must have come off too dominating. Will, my HowAboutWe date, told me I had that habit. “You’re very self-assured, I think it’s probably intimidating to the guys you’re meeting from the sites,” he warned me.
When we finished our drinks I asked him if he had any big weekend plans. “Probably gonna get some forties and drink them in Fort Greene Park with my bros,” he said.
The kid can wear a suit and take an excellent self-portrait. I’m sure he’ll have a bunch of fun in the city but I think the window for me drinking forties in the park ended years ago. I definitely didn’t want to be this guy’s boss.
This morning I gave Granny the low down on my non-date with Todd. Before I could finish explaining his flawed plan to meet at the fountain she interrupted me, “He’s a schmuck. Let me count the ways. In one breath you could name ten.” She’s the only person I know who could pull off a bashing in under breath.
She found several reasons to coin him a jerk but it was his cigarette smoking that really threw her over the top. “I wanna tell you something,” she said cutting me off, “This man has no regard for himself or anyone else. If his teeth were that yellow what good care does he take of himself and more importantly when was the last time he’s seen a dentist?”
Although I wasn’t planning on seeing him again she brought up an excellent point, “If it has to be that confusing and troublesome from the beginning then screw it. It can’t get better it can only get worse.” I think that’s a gem I’ll have to remember in the future for someone more worthwhile.
I changed gears to find out how her Passover seder was, “Your mother wanted to sit with me but I said, ‘You’re fine, I’m sitting with the old focacas,’ and they were really old, older than me. We were at the old focacas corner.” I’m pretty sure Granny made up the Yiddish work “focacas”. Boy do I love that old focaca.
LISTEN TO OUR CONVERSATION: conversation.mp3
When Todd sent me an invitation over OKCupid to join him in Washington Square Park he enticed me with the promise of dairy filled treats. Ice cream in the park on a sunny afternoon? Come on, every woman and child would go for that. I like a cheeky cocktail as much as the next gal but I was itching to have a date outside of a bar.
“Hey, I’ll be in front of the fountain or sitting on the side chairs, but in front :), see you at 6:30,” he wrote. I never ask to exchange numbers prior to a date but the fountain at Washington Square Park has an enormous circumference with hundreds of fountain dwellers surrounding it so I requested his digits to avoid any confusion.
He declined, suggesting that it would be “fun” to randomly spot each other. It was a romantic idea in theory but once I got there and circled the fountain four times eyeing men and children a little too closely, I was annoyed. After fifteen minutes passed I took a seat by the arch, logged on to my OKCupid phone app and sent him my location and description, “I’m the cool girl with the snazzy white bike.”
No response. I sat for a total of forty-five minutes. I felt like Gene Hackman in The Conversation, just being a creep listening to people talk and watching the brooding students, cute babies, and the hot lesbian couple making out two feet to my left. I was pretty certain I was being stood up but I was enjoying staring at strangers enough to wait it out.
As the sun began to set I mounted my white horse (my schwinn) and valiantly rode out of the park. When I hit the exit a short guido of a man puffing away on a Marlboro red stopped me. “Yo,” he yelled. I pumped my breaks and realized that this man vaguely resembled the pictures Todd had posted on OKCupid.
I momentarily tried to summon a polite girl inside of me, I tried forcing a fake smile but my inner bitch came crawling out, “You are forty-five minutes late. Not cool at all. I’m busy so I’m going to be on my way.”
He took a deep drag on on his burner and blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “Sorry, so much traffic getting in to the city and then I had to park my car. I live in Jersey,” he said. I brought up that his profile said he lived in the East Village. “Yeah, I put that so nobody would stalk me.” I assured him that I didn’t believe he needed to worry about that.
In his profile all of his pictures had close-lipped smiles. As he puffed away and revealed his yellow teeth, not pale yellow, I’m talking corn on the cob yellow, I quickly understood why. I asked if there were any other details he concealed on his profile. “Yeah I put down that I work in tech but I really work in finance.” Aha, another unnecessary lie. He was clearly a weirdo, and not the flavor of weirdo that I like.
In the five minutes we talked he smoked two cigarettes. It would have been impressive if it weren’t so disgusting. I mounted my bike again, he put his hand on my handle and I quickly removed it. “Let me get your number,” he said, mustering up every last bit of machismo.
“Nope,” suddenly I was relieved that Todd had declined to swap numbers from the get go. “That’s okay, it’ll be ‘fun’ for us if we run into each other again.” I waved him good-bye then pedaled away to the nearest deli where I bought myself some ice cream. Clearly my date was a bust but that didn’t mean my sweet tooth should have to suffer too. A solo cookiewich on a street corner wasn’t exactly how I imagined my date going but goddamn it was delicious.
“Next time you talk to me I wanna hear from you: ‘You’re a good Granny. Granny, my good girl. You’re a good girl,’” she purred with a baby-talk voice into the receiver. “Wait, is that how I talk to Roxy (our family dog)? Forget about it, I don’t need that,” she said coming back to her senses and rough New Yorker accent.
Granny was right. Her conversation with William went on for more than my predicted ten-fifteen minutes. It clocked in at a solid one hour and twenty-two minutes. “I’m hoarse, goddammit,” she said after their chat, adding a theatric cough for emphasis.
Although she talked some good shit, William could be an interesting match for her. “He is extraordinarily well traveled,” she said. I like that Granny admires a man with exciting adventures under his belt. He’d need to have some seriously interesting experiences to share if he’s ever going to compete with her. “He is intelligent, I’ll give you that. He is old, you better give me that,” she said, weighing out his potential.
It also sounds like William is interested in more than just some light phone banter; although he didn’t set a date he did say he’d like to get together sometime. Following the same protocol as I would, Granny didn’t push for the date. The man needs to make that move. “Let him invite me out,” she said, “I’m not doing this telephone thing on an ongoing basis. I would like to see what this man looks like.” Come on Billy, ask a gal out.
LISTEN TO GRANNY’S VOICEMAIL: William voicemail.mp3
I’m back to bullying Granny. After a game of phone tag with a potential date she called to tell me, “I find that all these old people, forget me, the other people, they just like to talk.” Although the young poptart has yet to have an actual conversation with the man, she’s convinced that all he’s after is a “telephone love affair”.
He’s been slow to ask her out so she’s decided to play hardball. “I told him he can call me in the evenings after nine.” Calling after nine is not just late for older people, that’s dangerously close to booty call territory. This argument only infused Granny more, “Listen I do things, I don’t sit around all night,” she hollered, “I move my body and go. He wants to talk to me? I don’t have time to chat. I’m charming, he has to come and meet me.” Suddenly it’s much clearer why I turned out with such a prominent conceited streak.
I piped up in his defense, it’s reasonable to talk to someone for 10-15 minutes before a date. “Ten-Fifteen minutes?” she asked sarcastically, “You’re living in a dreamland. Ten-fifteen minutes? They’re still stuttering their names after ten minutes, these are old people. Ten-Fifteen minutes in the world of 25 years olds is an hour of conversation. Ten-fifteen minutes with an old fart of 80 or older goes on forever.” Ugh her argument is frustratingly stubborn, oozing with denial, but so badass I have to respect it.
LISTEN TO OUR CONVERSATION: telephone love affair convo.mp3
I told Granny about Sam and his macho nicknames for me but she refused to believe it had anything to do with the fact that I outweighed him in size and mass.
LISTEN TO HER RESPONSE: granny chat.mp3
“There is nobody who looks more feminine or womanly than you do,” she told me. “That’s strictly his thing, don’t buy into his problem.” (I casually flip my hair and blush)
Who could ask for a better cheerleader? Contrary to her kind words, I happen to be wearing my men’s XL sweatpants as I type this. This is day three of me wearing them in a row. I’m alone in my apartment, but still. I feel a little bit like a dude.