Mr. Special Ops

Carrie – When my friend offered me her place to stay in Seoul and my credit card supplied me with free flights, I impulsively booked my four Asian-metropolis trip for May: Tokyo, Shanghai, Busan and Seoul.

We met interesting people along the way, that’s for sure. One night in Tokyo, we ended up at as the only two girls at this karaoke bar, where I proceeded to get serenaded and dipped by the big, burly bartender to Enrique Iglesias’ “Hero” (song is forever ruined).

i-can-be-your-hero-baby-thumb

Cue to my last weekend Seoul, where I develop what I will term “Seoul Goggles” which is essentially a “do it for the blog” mentality.

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Bachelorette in Hell

 

Carrie – Move over Bachelor in Paradise, there’s a new show called Bachelorette in Hell and it is my love life. (That was cheesy, I apologize.)

Throughout the first few weeks of January, in order to get over my obsession with Mr. Heart Emoji, I distract myself with an app called Bumble where the girl has to talk to the guy first. Now, I’m pretty good with alluring men with one liners. In fact, I arrange three dates in one weekend.

Keeping em? That’s a different story (aka this blog post).

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From the Archives: Mr. Apartment

Miranda – This story takes place about 18 months ago. While it does not revolve around dating per say, it’s just too entertaining not to share.

During university, I packed up my life and moved to Denmark for a semester abroad. Before I go on, one thing you should know about me is that although I love having a good time, it is very rare for me to step out of my comfort zone. It would take a substantial amount of alcohol (read as: drowning in alcohol) and a hot foreign boy to get me doing something crazy. Fortunately, in this situation, I had both.

It all started at a club – classy, I know – we were celebrating my friend’s birthday the way we know best. Shortly after we arrived, we began talking to two guys and I found myself attracted to one of them. Long story short, we had a fun time dancing and making out at the club. By the end of the night, I knew I wanted to see him again in a casual context so we exchanged Facebook information. It was a good night and I was content.

Fast forward to a couple weeks later, we’d hung out a few more times and I really enjoyed his company. We knew this wouldn’t go anywhere, as I was leaving for the 6ix very shortly. Our last encounter before we left involved his friend’s house party. Originally, I wasn’t even going to go as I had just returned from a weekend trip to London earlier that day (London was a whole different experience in itself but I’ll write about it another time). However, even as exhausted and gross as I was, I decided to partake and thank god I did, or I wouldn’t be sharing this story right now.

At the house party, the only person I knew there was Mr. Apartment, and although everyone was friendly, we decided that hooking up was a better investment of our limited time instead of superficial socializing. To everyone else’s displeasure, we began to make out intensely on a stranger’s couch until we were asked multiple times to “get a room”. So, we went to do just that.

The only problem was neither of us lived in that apartment complex or even anywhere nearby. In our drunken state, we resolved to explore the complex for some space to, ahem, tend to our needs. Somehow we managed to get randomly buzzed up past security and took the elevator to the top floor. Now, to this day, I have no idea how Mr. Apartment had the skill set, sobriety and comprehension to manage this next part. With a quick swipe of his hand, he somehow opened the locked door to an apartment and my horrified/excited face was met with darkness. In our inebriated state, we decided that the living room would be the perfect place to have some fun. In fact, I should probably change Mr. Apartment’s name to the more accurate Mr. Not Your Apartment, but that’s just unnecessarily long.

Later, I got up to a grab a glass of water from the kitchen and at that moment, a bedroom door opened to reveal a confused, sleepy and angry man. He immediately grabbed the glass from my hand and proceeded to fire questions at us. Mr. Apartment was obviously very inexperienced in breaking and entering and began to answer every single question hopelessly honestly. However, as the decidedly more sober one, I smartened up, took control, and used my soft, seductive voice to apologize and coax the man out of calling the police (as he threatened to do moments before). My voice must’ve been liquid gold because somehow, we were able to leave the premise without so much as a slap on the wrist.  The night ended in hilarious banter and analysis of the event that had just passed, and we walked out of the apartment to find the sun coming up. With the remnants of our drunkenness rubbing off, we sought refuge in a nearby McDonalds.

So, as you can see, my experience with Mr. Apartment was pretty incredible. A tale of lust, adventure, immoral decisions and quick thinking that ended in a fairly happily ever after. Definitely not one of those stories you tell your grandchildren though.

Mr. Puppy Love

Carrie – I used to be in love with all things love. You could say I am more like a Charlotte in that sense – a big romantic at heart – but I grew out of naivety out of necessity. I say necessity because there are a lot of humans out here in the city and humans are filled with fickle, fleeting, and often self-interested emotions (myself included). You might say I’m guarded, but with reason to be.

Before I regale you with stories of my tales dating in the 6ix, let me preface and try to give Carrie some character. This is my disclaimer that this post will be a bit different in tone. I used to want to be a writer. I would read so-called “chick lit” including Sarah Dessen, Nicholas Sparks, and Sophia Kinsella and live vicariously through the female protagonists. One of my greatest hopes at 14 was that one day, one day very soon, I would be swept off my feet by a perfect guy. I was disillusioned because in many ways, this did happen for me. My first love, my first boyfriend, my first everything-below-the-belt and I dated from high school through to my last year of university. Puppy love extended four and a half years until it eventually fizzled out to complacency on both of our parts, justified by “you can’t teach old dogs new tricks.” After a long summer month of us growing apart to the point where he was just ignoring me, I decided to confront the fact that we were no longer in love, not the same type at least, and we went our separate ways by August.

That first night officially single, I alternated between crying hysterically and silently, sleeplessly staring at the ceiling. I vowed to never let myself be this way again. The pain of feeling your heart break, rehashing every one of those last moments you didn’t realize would be lasts, did not feel worth it at the time. It felt pathetic that the only person I wanted to turn to was the one I had let cause that hurt. But how do you behave when the only way you knew how has been ripped away from you? My heart was broken but even worse, my head was too because I felt like I had lost all that I ever known.

As we didn’t get into a big, deal-breaking fight and neither one of us cheated, it was hard to identify what spurred this breakup on. He had gone from “0 to 100, real quick,” searching up hypo-allergenic dogs that we would raise together (because I am sadly allergic) to telling me he didn’t want to put effort into a relationship anymore. That night, out of all the moments of our long relationship, I kept searching for signs that I should have known this was coming. All I could think about was licorice. To elaborate, my father is a Costco snack addict and his pick of the summer was a kilogram box of cherry licorice sticks. At first, Mr. Puppy Love would grab handfuls at a time and I would have to hide the box to get him to stop eating them. But as we began our normal routine of Netflix-bingeing and straight-up-bingeing that summer, I noticed Mr. Puppy Love eventually stopped going for the licorice. As he got used to it being there, the novelty wore off, and that was the best metaphor I could think of to parallel the end of our relationship.

Luckily I had not been one of those girls who ditched her girlfriends to be with her man. I have seen many girls scramble, trying to salvage burnt bridges post-relationship, and I was fortunate not to be one of those. My support network encouraged me to take my time, to cry, to mourn, and to move on. My challenge was moving on romantically when my whole sexual identity up until that point had been symbiotic to his. I was caught up in this ideal of “the one.” The pressure to maintain the fact that he was my one and only and I was his one and only so this was meant to be. Any number more than one just seemed like a ruined fairytale.

Well this is a tale of woes, not unrealistic expectations of fairytales. And let me tell you, I have had plenty of tales this year and a half of singledom, especially since moving to the heart of the 6ix in a sweet condo with my former party-girl older sister. To wrap up this one, Mr. Puppy Love moved on with a girl I disliked two months after we broke up and that fizzled out shortly thereafter.

Finding out he had moved on first, I felt like the pressure of “the one” had been lifted, and I began accumulating many stories: some chapters, some novels, but mostly a lot of guest star/B storylines. I have learned to be wary, never naming the puppy before I take it ‘home’. However, I remain hopeful and forward-looking that I’ll find my Mr. Big, that Big love of my life. Even Carrie Bradshaw knows that “sometimes we need to stop analyzing the past, stop planning the future, stop figuring out precisely how we feel, stop deciding exactly what we want, and just see what happens.” We have to learn when to stop learning and just live in the moment.

At the end, all of these Mr. _______’s provide us with lessons, life experiences, and hilarious stories to blog about. So welcome to my bumpy ride of dating through the 6ix.

Mr. Hypnotist

Miranda – This one is for the books.

It’s actually a pretty funny situation, but the kind of humor that’s best appreciated from afar- you know, like when you’re not actually the poor girl that plays the starring role of this awkward movie she calls her life.

This next story begins yet again on Tinder. My reasoning for swiping right on Mr. Hypnotist was about superficial as it gets. He had me at “6’5.” Before I continue, let me just say I’m maximum 5’4 on a good day. So why I feel the need to date someone that is over a foot taller is beyond me. Anyway, I guess I deserve what came next. Over the next couple of days my communication over text with him was definitely one of the oddest experiences. To this day, I’m still undecided if his run-on sentences and spelling errors like “lets go for coffie” was carelessness or pure stupidity. I’m no grammar Nazi, but telling me that you are having a “bizzy day” is just not going to cut it.

I pushed these thoughts aside and made plans to meet for a quick coffee. He arrived 20 minutes late, just as I was on the cusp of leaving out of frustration and impatience. Mr. Hypnotist apologized profusely and we sat down and began our conversation. Even though he was no Mr. Starry Night, overall he was pleasant enough, as tall as he claimed to be, and showed great interest in getting to know me. At the same time, he was visibly nervous and fidgety, which only added to the awkwardness of the situation. However, this isn’t what makes the story as great as I originally promised.

About 10 minutes into the conversation he tells me a very curious fact about himself. One of his previous jobs was as a Stage Hypnotist Performer. Now fun fact about me – I grew up being kind-of a magic geek, and hypnotism totally falls under that category. He now piqued my interest, but for how long could he keep it? From there, I made my first mistake.

Mr. Hypnotist asked me if he could try hypnotizing me and I’m ashamed to say my curiosity got the better of me. Before I continue, need I remind you we’re still sitting in a very public coffee shop so I can’t say if this is the right environment for this kind of activity. He began his hocus pocus and while I felt myself definitely getting calmer, I didn’t feel like I was in a trance. The moment where I was supposed to be “under the influence” never came, and I got anxious. I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed that it didn’t work so the only thing I could think of doing at that very moment was to… fake it. Now up until now, I never thought I’d have to fake at any other moment than during sex, but here I am in that very position. I’m pretty sure that my acting skills were pretty cringe-worthy but he didn’t seem to notice. Just when I thought the horror was over, he proceeded to continue to hypnotize me another 3 times. During these sessions, he “influenced” me to forget the number 7, forget my name, and ended with a grand finale of attempting to make me fall in love with him. Unfortunately for him, none of this worked but because I was too much of a pussy to call him out on his lack of hypnotism skills I continued to play the role and I followed through with all of his asks. Hey, I’m a method actress dedicated to the art of pretend, what can I say.

At this point, I’m pretty sure all eyes in the coffee shop were on us, but I guess I deserved it for not speaking up earlier. We parted ways with a hug and I rushed to my chiro appointment (thank god I had a real excuse to leave). As you might guess, I had no intention to see Mr. Hypnotist again. To my dismay, he didn’t feel the same way. His barely legible texts persisted for the next 3 weeks.

This very tall man has much room for improvement on his hypnotism skills. I walked away from that date very much not in love with him.

UPDATE: He texted me once again on a Sunday afternoon. This has been probably two months since our initial coffee date. Thankfully, in his proposition of a “coffee & walk,” the spelling was correct! I was happy to see improvement, until I saw the remainder of his text, “Hope your having a great day!@.” No, the @ sign is not a typo by me, but by the unfortunate Mr. Hypnotist.

Mr. Nightmare On My Street

Samantha – Oh man, I am so sorry you’re about to read this. It is embarrassing, it is cringe-worthy and entirely hilarious if it didn’t happen to you.  Definitely a look-back-and-laugh kind of situation….I hope.

It all started around 9 o’clock on Saturday night, it was Halloween and I knew it was going to be wild. I hadn’t gotten very drunk for a long time, which according to the law of averages meant that I was due for a disaster. I guess things had just being going too well for me lately. After drinking way too much rum and playing way too much beer pong with way too much wine, I was stinking drunk. Like black out before the bar drunk, which is what I’m going to use to excuse my ludicrous behavior.

It started when I was making out with this guy at the pre-drink, who happened to be my beer pong partner, outside of my friend’s house. Ok, not entirely classy but not all that bad either. We go our separate ways and besides for some awkward dialogue everything was copasetic.  Then it’s time to go to the bar. We all congregate outside my friend’s house and on the steps of her front porch in front of everyone at the pre, including my beer pong partner/make out buddy, I ambush another guy with my mouth. Please keep in mind I do not remember any of this and was receiving updated accounts from my friends until 4PM YESTERDAY. So if I’m missing any details it is because I am intentionally leaving them out or have no idea what they are….which is probably a good thing because here is where the story picks up.

We all hop into Ubers and I head to the bar with conquest #2 in the front seat, a good friend on my left, and this guy that I haven’t seen since grade 5 on my right. Now for my pièce de résistance:  with conquest #2 is in the front seat, I begin making out with Grade 5 Guy while my poor friend tries to put as much distance between us and her as she can. She was so uncomfortable and conquest #2 was just like “Trueeeee” since I had been kissing him probably 3 minutes prior. Luckily, Grade 5 Guy had enough sense to stop me before things got even more out of hand and the rest of the ride was relatively uneventful.

I end up spending the rest of the night with Grade 5 Guy because apparently making moves on 3 people from the same pre is the limit that my drunk self has set. Truthfully, if this is where the night ended I would have just chocked it up to one of those that I’d happily forget and move on from. Unfortunately it wasn’t and I can only describe the next series of events as utterly traumatic.

Grade 5 Guy and I decide to leave the bar and grab a cab to my place. We head inside – where I live with my parents, mind you – and all of a sudden this blaring engulfs the house…I have tripped the damn alarm trying to sneak in! And, being the drunken brainiac that I am, I hit the “POLICE” button instead of off when putting in the security code…EXCELLENT. So naturally the waling continues until my mom runs out and shuts it off. At this point my poor, drunken brain can’t handle all the incoming stimuli and had only enough sense to clumsily push Grade 5 Guy toward the basement, hoping that I had not been caught sneaking a 6 foot something, essentially random guy into my house. Obviously, that was not the case and they totally knew.

The problem is that my parents are not at all fond of having guys stay over. In fact, this is the first time a guy ever has, made much better by the fact that they had no idea he was coming. I knew that when I moved back home hooking up was going to be a challenge, but never in my right mind would I have brought someone home because it is just plainly absurd. However, I was clearly not in my right mind when I made this decision and am barely alive to tell the tale.

Keep in mind that I am actually leaving out quite a bit of gory detail as there are some things just too embarrassing to release to the internet. But I’m sure you can assume that if this is the toned down version of my night, Sunday morning was exceptionally rough on all accounts. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I was still drunk when he left at 8 am the next day because oh ya, that’s right. For whatever reason unbeknownst to the likes of me, my parents didn’t kick him out and we ended up hooking up in my basement. Yup, that’s the decision I made after all the theatrics throughout the night. Needless to say, my conversation with my parents the day after was nothing less than incredibly awkward and things are super weird at this point. Waiting for this to blow over is like watching paint dry…a slow and painful death.

Oh! And what about the police button you ask? Well, by the grace of God the alarm company called and my mom was able to convince them that I’d made a mistake and not to dispatch the police…Because realistically this story could have only have been made worse by cops showing up, searching my house and finding two intoxicated idiots hooking up in the basement.