Tuesday, January 17, 2006

suit daddy of doom

I guess I had, “will fuck for food,” scrolling across my forehead in bold fire engine red font. Or at least to Mr.-Suit-Daddy-of-Doom I did. And what an esteeming moment for Katie that was.

Henry suffered from a severe case of assholicitis. He probably contracted it from his father, Henry Sr. when he was a child. While other kids were playing with their friends in the sandbox, Henry Sr. was teaching his son how to be the perfect prick, leading by example.

My best friend, Katie Donnelly hooked me up with Henry because he was traveling to New York for business. She assured me that his work personality was charming and witty. Though I’m not a fan of the blind date, I figured how bad could it be? He lived Philly. We didn’t run in the same circles and our paths would never cross unless I schlepped to Katie’s office, which wasn’t happening anytime soon. While I prefer to be a veritable whore for one true love, if it’s been awhile, which it had, a fierce pounding was in order for this millennium dame.

Upon agreeing to the debacle, Henry emailed me:

Hi Katie,
Henry here. I just wanted to introduce myself, maybe get your number and see if we can’t hook up for dinner one night while I’m in LA. What do you think?

What a seemingly normal and lovely introductory email. He even included a photo of himself. When I opened it, my vagina, Olivia, glistened with joy. Henry had short dark hair, ravenous green eyes and an almost perfect physique. I would’ve preferred a paunch, but whatrya gonna do?! A paunch on a man, especially if he has charisma and I am attracted to his personality sends me deranged with a capital “D.” Sadly paunches are a rare commodity. I don’t like chiseled men. I never have. I prefer a real man’s body; you know, white collar desk jockey meets construction working professional luncher. I wanted to email him back and ask, “Where do you want my ankles,” but opted for restraint. I kept thinking, I didn’t even have to go cock hunting for this one. What a lucky girl I am.

For the next week, Henry and I exchanged flawless emails. He didn’t get my sense of humor and I idealized that he understood it completely. He was not the sharpest needle in the haystack, yet in my idyllic world, he was, in a word, brilliant. He was cutting and cold. To Ms. Denial, he was perfectly sarcastic.

Everything was moving along famously until…

…He insisted on a mall-date. Chelsea Brewing Company at Chelsea Piers. Okay, so he’s o-orama guy. It’s not my favorite, lacks character, but I said to myself, “Katie, keep an open mind.”
I decided to go with a provocative conservative look for the fiasco that was my date with Henry. Tousled, I-look-great-after-I-fuck, hair. Understated, bordering preppy brown eyeliner and beige shadow with slutty red lipstick. To wear, I chose my pleated-Catholic-guilt-wielding mini skirt, 3 inch very high Mary Jane’s and a plunging-show-those-DDD-breasts-v-neck blouse. Being an avid collector of vintage, and select modern scents, I wore Eau De Hadrian perfume and lathered my body in vanilla bourbon lotion. I wanted to eat myself, I smelled so delicious. For good luck, I carried my whoomph bag. Ya know, a bag so big it goes whoomph when you put it down – leathah, of course.

I showed up on time with the effervescence of a virgin call girl turning her first trick! Henry told me he would be wearing a navy blue Italian double breasted suit. Okay 80s. And that he was tall, 6’5. I aspire to be 5’4. In heels I’m barely 5’7. To me a guy 5’10 is tall… enough. I digress. Stay open, Schwartzy.

Henry was easy to spot, he was the redwood tree pacing in the foyer of Chelsea Brewing Company. He was yakking on some overly priced cell phone that double backs as a palm-email-web-surfing-television-feeds me-when-I’m-hungry-cures-cancer, phone. We made eye contact, so I smiled pleasantly and walked towards him. Still on the phone, he said, “Katie Schwartz.” I nodded. He simultaneously snapped for the maĆ®tre d, continuing with his phone conversation and whisking me to the table.

It gets better.

He proceeded to toss his head from side to side preying for a food service engineer to interrogate, and screaming obscenities into the phone. I wanted to slink under the table, turn to smoke and hope that the air conditioning pushed me out the door or sucked me in. Instead, I mouthed, “I’m sorry,” to every person I could make eye contact with, rolling my eyes at Henry’s behavior. It was truly the zenith of shame.

Instead of politely ending his conversation, he snapped his phone shut and slammed it on the table sending a nervous-wife-beateree jolt down my spine. A few loud snaps later, a waitress was taking his orders, “Two glasses of house red. No more then 7 bucks a glass and no less than 4.” As she turned to leave, Henry wailed, “hey, I’m not done yet.”

Oh my God, what is wrong with this man? Who behaves this way? Why did he have to forget to take his human pill tonight of all nights? I was every shade of crimson you can’t think of and wanted to burst into flames from humiliation. The poor waitress regretfully obeyed Spawn of, and took his order. “We’ll each have a prosciutto salad. She’ll have shrimp pasta for dinner and I will have the filet mignon, medium-rare. That’s medium-RARE. No water for the table and do not fill this bread basket again.”

I sat across from him thinking, thanks for asking me what I wanted, Henry. How very sensitive and caring of you. I’m deathly allergic to meat and seafood. I’ve been a lacto-ovo vegetarian my entire life. The only meat I eat is cock. As much as I love red wine, I don’t drink and drive. In fact, I rarely drink at all.

This was the first time in my entire life I didn’t feel like Katie. I felt like, “Insert female here.” It was soooo creepy and surreal to see someone go from ostensibly normal to unadulterated narcissism.

I was surprised when Henry’s phone rang and he let it go to voicemail. Then again, I’m sure the idea of not spending the evening uninterrupted discussing Henry was a burden he just couldn’t bear. Henry is addicted to commentating about Henry and while he did that for two solid hours, I fantasized about my responses had I been able to get a word in edgewise.

“Katie, you’re a lucky woman to be in my company this evening.”

Are ya sure, Henry? Cause I’m thinking a case o’ warts with a yeast infection, bronchitis, back would be much more pleasant.

“I’m so good looking.”
Until you open your mouth.

“If you play your cards right, you just might get some.”
Chance to give you a vasectomy so your gene pool ends with you?

“I love DVD night, hundred dollar nights. I can go from double breasted Italian suit to sweatpants in an hour.”
What an I- wear-leather-n-lace-creepy-chick-syndrome thing to say.

“I love washing my woman’s hear with papaya shower gel.”
That’s just so wrong on every level, pharmacy boy.

“My armor is dinged. I have battle scars from love.”
Who loved you? I want names and addresses!

“I need intimacy immediately.”
Isn’t your reflection immediate enough?!

“I could make out with you right now if I wanted to.”
With a date rape drug. Go you!

Henry could not stop talking for five fucking minutes. He was so hot for Henry, he spit talked steak and probably maintained a steady-as-she-almost-blows, erection. Had I been hot for him, watching him eat steak would’ve spread my legs faster than Condi Rice defends Bush for being Bush. I am the first vegetarian you know who loves watching a man eat steak. It’s carnal, raw and manly.

I was a prisoner without food or water, strapped to the electric chair being injected with heaping doses of Henryoxins. Onlookers glanced my way with pity in their eyes, actual pity! I was chanting for someone, anyone, to call my cell phone so I could flee under the guise of an emergency. He droned on like Bush addressing the nation without dummy cards. This Jew was in hell and it had a name, Henry!

I wanted to scream, “how dare you impose your pulse upon us, you wretched life sucking demon! Why couldn’t you have become a reclusive cutter and spared us all of your lackluster, egotistical self?! I hate you-I hate you-I hate you!”

Oh, I was losing it, and faster than a doctor prescribes ADD drugs to a 5-year-old with an overactive imagination. My dignity and ability to maintain perspective went right out the window. They couldn’t run fast enough, leaving me with my base personality and Henry, the devil incarnate himself.

After Henry inhaled his last bite of flesh, he took a long deep breath. Silence reverberated. It was bliss on a stick. He paused for a moment only to beckon our waitress with the sensitivity of a piranha eating its young. Keen on Henry departing from her table, she rushed to his side.
“Check, please.”

Please? Oh my God, could it be? Was he being nice? Was the date ending? I felt as victorious as Moses did after parting the seas. I was about to get my walking papers. Hallelujah!
She quickly handed him the check and waited for him to pay. He glanced at the bill, then at me, back to the bill and back to me, sitting there with two untouched plates of food and a full glass of wine. I reached for my bag and took out my wallet. Like I wanted to feel beholden to Henry. “No, no, I’ll get this,” he said while tossing me a smirk and a wink. With that, I pulled out my credit card and handed it to the waitress. He took the card from her and handed it back to me. So I said, “Henry, let’s just split it, okay.”

“I’m a gentleman” pours out of his mouth, echoing in my brain.
A gentleman? He’s a gentleman! According to Webster’s Dictionary, because I looked it up, a gentleman is, “A well-mannered and considerate man with high standards of proper behavior.” My legs welded closed in anticipation of what was next on this gentleman’s “To Do” list because it sure as shit wasn’t me.

I raced out of the restaurant first and positioned myself at a cold distance from Henry, feeling distressed about his next move. I frigidly extended my hand to shake his. As an alternative, Henry inched closer to me using his height as a fear tactic. I hate when men do that, tower over a short chick. It’s so raperee. The closer he got, the more I withdrew. Being a straight shooter and realizing I wasn’t getting out of this without minimally a hug, I said, “Let me hug you so I can go, okay? I have to be up at 4AM.” I extended my arms to hug him in a way that insured our below the waist extremities would have no contact whatsoever. My head was turned so far away from his that his tongue landed in my hair. I could only hope my hair products made him choke. No such luck. While freeing myself from his embrace, he grabbed my arm and pulled me closer trying to kiss me. I was furious. “THIS. Isn’t THAT.” So he says to me, he says, “We’re going for a nightcap.”

Is he kidding me with this?! “You don’t have to play coy with me, Katie. I’m a sure thing. You got the guy,” he shouts, peppered with the enthusiasm of a serial rapist on a binge.
“Henry, if a nuclear war killed everyone on earth except us, and vibrators became extinct, I still wouldn’t fuck you,” I screamed.

He laughed. I left.

Two weeks later I received an email from Henry.

Hi, Kate.
I’m in town September 12th. Let’s have dinner unless you’re still on the rag.

What’s with the asterisks?

I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked that my, no-I-won’t-fuck-you was postulated as menstruation. After all, if you’re Henry, rejection just isn’t an option.

The email went unanswered, so I was delighted when I received yet another inviting-and-caring-correspondence from him.

I guess you are still on the rag. Whatever be-yatch. At this point, Katie, even if you do email me back, I won’t respond. The window is closed. I’m no longer interested in you. It’s your loss.
Stupid, silly girl.

And he questions why he’s single?!


so my neighbor borrowed my entire screwdriver collection, and like never returned them. Isn't that wrong? You can't just abscond with a woman's screwdrivers for crissakes. When am I going to take the time to buy more? She's foreign, so does she think borrow means keep? How very ethnocentric of me to say. So, I am a snatch on wheels.


I want my fucking screwdrivers back.


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