#NerdsUnite: Online dating confessions w. your host @datestable (south of rock bottom)

<editorsnote> Nerds, meet my buddy Datestable. Thats obvi not his real name, but what he chooses to go by in the on that there thing called the "internet." He's super chill, super smart, and super freaking nerdy. I only have one more thing left to say ... HIT IT DATESTABLE!!! </editorsnote>

#TalkNerdyToMeLover's @Datestable

Last week I had to go to Raleigh, North Carolina for a work meeting, shuttling in and out for a little over 24 hours. These short trips, with a few exceptions, bring me to random cities that speckle our countries between the coasts and give me the opportunity for solo travel exploration. As a rule, I deal with people considerably older than me, so social activities beyond an early bird dinner are usually not an option. So I end up going out by myself quite a bit. What’s a young whippersnapper to do on a Saturday night in North Carolina? In New Orleans, one of my favorite places in the world, the wealth of music clubs easily solved this problem for me. But what the heck is there to do in Raleigh? I asked Yelp. But Yelp can’t find me a friend, and I felt like having a drink with another human being than night. After a brief and desperate stab at Plenty of Fish’s mobile app, I did the unthinkable…I loaded Craigslist Raleigh Personals…yeah.

Needless to say, POF aside, Craigslist is the rock bottom of online dating, the equivalent of a jewel thief stealing change from a street musician—it’s a desperate move, more cry for help than real attempt at human bonding. The only way I could justify it was by telling myself that I was in a different town where I didn’t know anyone. I tried my luck, figuring no one would even respond at 10:30 PM on a Saturday night. 31/M/out of town/show me Raleigh…something like that. And I made sure not to post it under Intimate Encounters, mostly to fool my conscience into thinking this was normal social behavior. Not 10 minutes later, I had 2 replies in my inbox. One was from someone whose email address masked her real name but identified her a girl who enjoys running. She was interested in chatting but not hanging out. Since I’m not a 12-year-old boy in an AOL chat room and this isn’t 1998, I asked a few polite questions about stuff to do and moved on.

The next message was more intriguing. It came with an actual name (albeit a colorful one). She referenced a bar very close to my hotel in Downtown Raleigh that Yelp had earlier recommended. One that served mead and moonshine, no less (South!). She was heading out there in a bit and asked if I wanted to meet. This was as perfect logistically as it would get, so I sent her my number and asked for hers. A few minutes later, she replied asking for my picture and telling me that she’d left her phone in her friend’s car but would be wearing jeans and a blue top. Right away, my mind broke down the possibilities based on this dubious development: 

•          60% this was a dirty prostitute or worse
•          30% it was some unsavory specimen of lady I’d never want to meet
•          10% this experience would be neutral or better

For the first two possibilities, my contingency was simple: the hotel is virtually across the street and I can make my escape at any time. I shrugged, emailed her my photo, and headed over to the place. After a 5-minute wait due to over-capacity (take that, NYC!), I was waved into a basement den full of college and post-collegiate types, with a few hipsters thrown in for good measure. I noted the lack of diversity (98% of the bar was white) but this was preppy downtown after all. I sidled over to the edge of the bar to check out the menu when an attractive Southern belle asked me if it was raining outside. As someone who doesn’t hit on girls at bars very often, I took this as a cue to mildly flirt with her.

“What’s good here?” She pointed at a couple of bourbon-based cocktails.

“Wow, moonshine, really?” I asked, expecting her to flip her hair coquettishly, smile, and launch into a conversation about regional differences. Didn’t even crack a smile.

“And what will you be having?” I asked in the least cheesy-sounding tone I could muster. This was met with crushing silence and I buried my face in the drinks menu, pretending I was talking to myself. Biatch! No matter, I already had a date for the evening, after all!

I grabbed a regional double IPA and tried to plant myself non-creepily between hordes of bros and couples on dates. A table opened up and I plopped down, realizing that without the twentysomething social pressure to mingle and strut, 30-year-olds can comfortably sit at a bar playing Scrabble and Words with Friends without harsh judgment. Soon a co-ed group of friends invaded the table, no doubt annoyed at my intrusive presence. I stood my ground and eavesdropped on their conversation and inside jokes. At this point, I was pretty indifferent to my mysterious Craigslist date. The whole no phone thing was pretty sketchy and I was having some pretty intense tile exchanges in WWF. I sipped my beer and people-watched. At one point, a larger blob of southern preppies showed up, clearly intent on coagulate with their other half at my table. Stubbornly, I dug in my heels and furiously shuffled my tiles trying to ignore the exchange of pleasantries (bar conversations sound so dumb when you’re neither drunk nor involved).

The girl never showed. This was something of a relief. When I woke up the next morning, my biggest regret was not trying one of the bar’s moonshine offerings, a cultural opportunity I should have grabbed. In my inbox was an email dispatched at 5 AM by my now missed connection. “You’re hot! Too bad I missed you,” she declared, which meant she’d not seen the picture before leaving the house. She claimed to have gone to the bar, waited for me with a drink, then gone upstairs and waited there. It was a small bar and our time there overlapped, so I didn’t know how we could have missed each other, since the crowd thinned out after midnight, but c’est la vie. I was slightly flattered at the superficial appraisal of my “profile photo” but not enough to do something completely insane, like asking her to hang out during the day. Another city, another one-man rage, another missed connection, but this one I could live with. Still, in the back of my mind, I was intrigued at the unsolved mystery of the girl in jeans and a blue top waiting for me at the bar with a glass of moonshine and no phone in her pocket. 

#kthxbye

click here to follow datestable on twitter!

#NerdsUnite: Online dating confessions w. your host @datestable (Adorkable)

<editorsnote> Nerds, meet my buddy Datestable. Thats obvi not his real name, but what he chooses to go by in the on that there thing called the "internet." He's super chill, super smart, and super freaking nerdy. I only have one more thing left to say ... HIT IT DATESTABLE!!! </editorsnote>

#TalkNerdyToMeLover's @Datestable

Have you noticed the recent (or maybe not so recent) trend of “cool” girls acting “nerdy”? What’s up with that? In the wonderful 80s (and most of the 90s), a very clear line was drawn between jock and nerd. Revenge of the Nerds, the seminal study of socio-academic cultural differences among our youth, instructed us to embrace the nerd within us and that some jocks were indeed closeted nerds (for more on Fred “Ogre” Palowakski consult your local Internet).

The nerdification of normals started slow, sometimes expressing itself in very subtle tones throughout the 90s. Steve Urkel became Stefan Urquelle.  People were listening to Moby. Then, in the “aughts,” a cultural groundswell occurred. It was suddenly cool to look like a nerd. So while actual nerds were busy solving the world’s alternative energy issues and trying to cure AIDS, faux nerds were plotting their takeover. At the grassroots level, lobbyists for the upper strata of wannabe-cool nerds were busy drawing up master plans on K Street. Zooey Deschanel, the spiritual leader of the movement, bid her time, disguising herself as a cute but cynical (“cunical”?) mall employee in the modern masterpiece Elf.

Pop nerd Justin Timberlake pranced for us, bringing the sexy back. Cine-geek Johnny Depp bewildered us with his haunting/idiosyncratic characterizations.  Now look at these nerds: Britney Spears and Anne Hathaway. Kim Kardashian, the socialite nerd and JWoww, the fake guidette, are clearly huge lovers of books, Dungeons & Dragons, and anagrams. Maybe there’s something very liberating about folks who are worshipped for their looks and glam factor being able to “nerd up,” or there is some contrarian impulse behind it all. Zooey’s sitcom New Girl has really brought the movement into focus, lifting the word “adorkable” to the height of its “annoyability.”

But regular chicks are getting in on the act, too. Just scan a dozen profiles on #OkCupid and you’re likely to find a few where a conventionally/blandly attractive girl is either rocking a pair of Buddy Holly glasses or professing /confessing her secret nerdliness.  Now, you might say that this is all in good fun, a harmless trend that creates a positive, empowering environment for people to be themselves. But what about the real nerds? No, not the “before” versions of those really hot actresses in “makeover” teen flicks where they’re supposedly unattractive at the start of the film. I’m talking female chess champions Humpy Koneru, Marie Sebag, and Hoang Thahn Trang. I’m talking Tina Fey. I’m talking Dorothy Hodgkin. Women who devoted their lives to the pursuit of nerdly endeavors, not casual, fashionable, or fair-weather geeks. These ladies have an identity and it should be respected. Now cool/attractive/popular girls, not content with p0wning their geeky sistahs in social achievements K-12, are cannibalizing their very essence on the young adult dating scene.

Oh, yee cool, yee well-adjusted single ladies—heed the call of justice and let your Rubik’s Cube-solving, gene-splicing, competitive Janga-playing compatriots have their day in the sun!

Disclaimer: Despite the snarky tone of this post, Datestable does not impute the nerd credentials of your host, Jen Friel, an uber-nerd whose geekaliciousness is beyond reproach.

#kthxbye

click here to follow datestable on twitter!

#NerdsUnite: Online dating confessions w. your host @datestable

<editorsnote> Nerds, meet my buddy Datestable. Thats obvi not his real name, but what he chooses to go by in the on that there thing called the "internet." He's super chill, super smart, and super freaking nerdy. I only have one more thing left to say ... HIT IT DATESTABLE!!! </editorsnote>

#TalkNerdyToMeLover's @Datestable

The following is inspired by a "girl" question: “When is it right to sleep with someone you’re dating?” I say girl question because few guys ever really ask this question, or pose it this way. At a younger age, guys might show their interest in a friend’s love life by asking, “Did you pork her yet?” An affirmative response will net you a high-5 (do kids still do that, or is it a high-4 or low-3 these days?)  while a negative response would earn you a look of pity or snorting disdain. But it wouldn’t get to that because you’d probably lie and say you had, even if privately you told the girl how much you love her and that you’re willing to wait for the right time.

But guy clichés aside, this question becomes more important to both genders as we grow older and remain single. Thus questions like “Is it right to sleep on a first date?” and “How many dates should I wait before banging so he doesn’t think I’m a slut?” occur with some frequency among daters. The desire for objective protocol to distill the confusing smog of romance is universal. If you’re not religiously orthodox and observant of sexual purity before marriage, you still need some sort of anchor. But as we all know, it’s hard to know when to drop one in the choppy waters of personal relationships.

Let’s start with the obvious: in most cases, the woman is the driver. Unless you’re an Antonio Banderas type (or a rapist) you will make your case, but the final decision will rest with the fairer gender. Thus I assume the vast majority of us, if we’re meeting a total stranger for the first time, don’t expect to go from banal questions over awkwardly sipped cocktails to hot monkey sex, or even gentle canoodling in the space of 2-3 hours. What we’re looking for is some sort of connection, hints of something greater, excitement for a second interview. But there is that rare occasion (rare for many of us, anyway), where the timing is so right, the conversation so good, the jokes so rip-roaringly funny, and the booze so potent, that you’ll end up doing something biblical by night’s end. 

Personally, when it comes to formal “dating,” I have not experienced first-date sex. More tangible than love at first sight, it’s still very elusive. At no time during a first date was there a point where I’d dare say, “How about we move this to your/my place.” If there’s good body language and the signs are there, a great date is one that ends in some quality, tipsy tongue-twisting. If you’re lucky enough, as has happened to me this year, it might take place in the rain. If you’re not Spider Man like me, a simple kiss on the lips can mean the difference between an iffy/confusing “Do I see him/her again?” and a “Wow.” That’s because first dates are inherently awkward and confusing.

For me, if I have a great time on a first date that ends without any preview of physical affection for next time, it makes the second date kind of tense (though sometimes more exciting). Of course, obsessing with getting action can be harmful and disconcerting. At least the first two dates, I’m more concerned about that first kiss than the unrealistic jackpot of bedding someone. From there, the story will unfold as it will. But the first kiss is crucial--it's like passing that first level on Who Wants to Be a MIllionaire? where your money, platry sum though it may be, is guaranteed. The second date is pesky, undefined, and often guided by the rhythm of the first date. If you made out at the end of that first night under the romantic glow of the F train in Brooklyn while a bum lubricates the tracks with his urine, your expectations for date #2 go up. I’ll be more relaxed knowing the next date can start with a kiss, but I have no idea how it will end. The stakes are higher. You must build on and exceed the success of the first. If it ends without a kiss, you will wonder if there'll be a second date, even if your companion "had a wonderful time and would love to do it again anytime, really, call me."

In short, there is no rule, but a great sequence over 3 dates might be kissing>more intense kissing>play/sex. Then again, I’ve had relationships where I’ve waited weeks/months, and others where it took 2 dates. Nowadays, 5 can seem like a long time if I’m really into the girl. On the other hand, it’s crazy that a month is “too long.” It’s all about chemistry, timing, and effort, in that order. (The pickup artists among you might disagree, but this is just my POV.) If you sleep together on the first date, it mind be mind-blowing, or it might be a little anticlimactic (no pun intended). It could also defuse the excitement and mystery that come with sexual tension. A guy might not care about his reputation or how he will be perceived in social terms as much as a girl, but that doesn’t mean that every guy wants to immediately shag the girl with whom he just had a great night and might have a future.

Ultimately, it’s all about what feels right and when. I’m willing to bet that for every time an aggressive guy makes his move too quickly, there are us tentative guys who don’t make the move fast enough. I’ve had the experience of “overthinking” the timing of sex. Later, I laughed about it because I realized that waiting for 4 dates was completely arbitrary and only confused a girl (who was clearly into me on the first date) as to my intentions. I was driving myself into the “Friend Zone” one wonderful date at a time. My best advice is: don’t overthink it. Go with your gut and make your feelings known to the extent possible. But pay attention to the other party. Getting to she show a few minutes late is much better than missing it altogether.

#kthxbye

click here to follow datestable on twitter!

#NerdsUnite: Online dating confessions w. your host @datestable (Valentine’s VSOP)

<editorsnote> Nerds, meet my buddy Datestable. Thats obvi not his real name, but what he chooses to go by in the on that there thing called the "internet." He's super chill, super smart, and super freaking nerdy. I only have one more thing left to say ... HIT IT DATESTABLE!!! </editorsnote>

#TalkNerdyToMeLover's @Datestable

Happy post-Valentine’s Day, the aptly named Hump Day for those of you not occupying your local Wall Street! As you wake up from your chocolate/obligatory sex hangover (or that pitcher of loneliness and vodka punch you brewed after falling asleep in front of a Glee/New Girl double feature…or whatever you kids TiVo these days), I reflect on an epic Tuesday night spent with my greatest current love…my parents. In the spirit of cheese and alternative interpretation of Valentine’s (read: I don’t have a date and want to have a normal Tuesday, except everything I do will be interpreted as an attempt to compensate for not having a date and feigning indifference even though my soul is crying, but I really truly don’t care even though I can’t definitively prove it to the world and damn it there’s no winning here) …where was I? Oh yeah, so I decided to go to invite my parents to the movies. I felt bad about neglecting them of late (full disclosure: like any good Russian Jew, I live in the same county as Mom and Dad), plus my dad has some tough medical issues to deal with in the short term, so I decided a little quality time was in order. Of course, Tuesdays means Optimum Rewards Day for Mom and Dad (apparently Cablevision/Optimum entice customers by giving away movie tickets for Tuesday matinees), and I decided to take them up on a long-standing offer and finally see The Descendants. I sprinted from my office, high atop MSG, where the latest episode of Linsanity was streaming live, to Clearview Chelsea Cinemas. With only minutes until previews, my dad was sweetly waiting by the ticket taker with my comp ticket. I grabbed it and advised him of the “will call” option. I entered a barely half-full theater (the beauty of an early-evening show on a random weeknight). My parents reserved two short rows (I had one to myself). I was told to sit in the corner with the boys (my dad and his friend Ed). I offered to go buy some popcorn but was immediately waived off. My parents smiled slyly at each other. “Trust me,” their faces said in unison. I complied and sat down. As soon as the lights dimmed and the green box of the first trailer lit the screen bright green, an unidentified hand proffered a foil-wrapped package over my shoulder. I wasn’t there to ask questions, especially when starving. The package revealed a cheese sandwich. Next came a little squeeze bottle of Purell®. Wrong  sequence, I thought, bits of whole wheat and Danish cheese falling from my mouth, but again I dared not question it. I scarfed down the cheese sandwich and had my next question answered before I completed the thought as another foil package was extended to me—this time it was a delicious chicken cutlet with a sweet honey glaze. Then I heard Ed’s voice summoning me from behind: “Cognac or vodka?” Now, this is a very welcome ritual, and a familiar one from several yacht outings I’ve been invited to by my dad and his friend. But I didn’t expect him to bring a portal bar to the movies. Suddenly my mom’s guilty smiles and broken insinuations when I entered the theater made sense. I refused but Ed wasn’t having it. I also understood why I’d been assigned to the men’s corner. Without hesitation, I took the rather elegant shot glass and downed what turned out to be a pretty damn rarefied and tasty cognac (and I’m no fiend). Ed was ready to pour another but I preempted him, prompted by  visions of narcolepsy cutting short a movie I actually wanted to be awake for. I’m not sure what happened behind me. Suffice it to say I’d be shocked if Dad and Ed had any intention to come home with cognac in their pockets. Toward the end of this rather long and somewhat underwhelming Alexander Payne flick, I heard some sobs from the back and for some reason associated them with Ed. When we left, my mom was visibly upset and scolded both me and herself for bringing someone about to undergo neurosurgery to a movie whose plot surrounds a woman vegetating in a hospital. “At least it wasn’t a documentary about tumors,” I offered. We walked out into another cold New York evening, and walked toward the subway past half-empty restaurants and against a stream of rushing girls glued to their smartphones and dudes last-minute-shopping for sex-salvaging flowers. 

#kthxbye

click here to follow datestable on twitter!

#NerdsUnite: Online dating confessions w. your host @datestable

<editorsnote> Nerds, meet my buddy Datestable. Thats obvi not his real name, but what he chooses to go by in the on that there thing called the "internet." He's super chill, super smart, and super freaking nerdy. I only have one more thing left to say ... HIT IT DATESTABLE!!! </editorsnote>

#TalkNerdyToMeLover's @Datestable

This is a banner week in the life of yours truly, with a trifecta of social networking achievements. First, I officially join the Yelp elite squad on Monday. Then, on Tuesday, I become Foursquare Mayor of my favorite lunchtime haunt, Soup Spot (only 27 check-ins later). And, on Wednesday, I get to inaugurate a column for venerable bloggeress Jen Friel on her awesome site just as my new blog, Da-Testable (title open to interpretation apparently), starts to take off. I feel like I rolled doubles three times in a row in Monopoly and should be carted off to the slammer. If there were any justice in the social media world, I probably would be.

Oh, how rude of me. Allow me to introduce myself: I’m a 31-year old Brooklyn dude, conceived and reared in the USSR. Once the Berlin Wall came down, shamefully exposing our peoples with our pants down, coffers empty, and spirits broken, my family decided to exercise the time-honored Jewish tradition of fleeing and migrate to NYC. Thus were my dreams of becoming a tiny-golden-giraffe-petting Oil-i-garch squashed. And I, in turn, squashed my parents’ fledgling dreams of immigrant success as I danced my way into a lower-tier Ivy League school and spent 4 years socializing with real Americans, majoring in hobbies, and drinking questionable brews. The perfect preparation for my then-to-be-future career as a moonlighting online dating blogger.

Luckily for you, I’m still single at 31, ready and willing to impart highlights, lowlights, and the occasional insight. What can you expect from me? Hijinks, bad puns, OkCupid anecdotes, flash stories, moments of shame, long sentences, awkward online silences, and total satisfaction. So stay tuned, and re-re-reFaceTweet!

#kthxbye

click here to follow datestable on twitter!