So last night I went out to celebrate the Russian New Year with some of my Russian friends… and this is what happened:
Guy 1: So what’s up with this Russian New Year’s thing?
Me: I have no idea really, I thought we’d be throwing glasses on the ground by now but apparently that’s another tradition and I might not even have that one right.
Guy 1: oh. I hadn’t even thought about traditions… interesting.
Me: Hey, maybe you and I should start one and throw or glasses at midnight. Like ‘Happy New Year, and mazel tov too!’
Guy 1: I think I should get your number so we can discuss all of this over a drink sometime.
Me: oh. Yeah… sure… ok.
Guy 1: so what’s you’re number?
Me: 646 – wrong digit, wrong digit, wrong digit – wrong digit – 226.
Guy 1: Great!
Lesson learned: don’t talk to strangers! They want your number and you are too stupid to come up with an excuse not to give it.
Guy 2: Can I sit here for a minute?
Me: oh sure, go ahead.
Guy 2: my feet are killing me.
Me: Mine too. But I’m wearing 5 inch heels…what’s your excuse?
Guy 2: do you think it would be ok if I put my feet upon that bench?
Me: I wouldn’t mind if you do, but other people might frown upon that.
Guy 2: you should probably get your feet up there too.
Me: Oh no, I’m good, thanks.
Guy 2: why not!?
Me: because I’d probably fall asleep then, and you know how weird the cleaning lady can get when she walks in at 7am and I’m all ‘Oh my God, how did this happen!” No thank you.
Guy 2: hey listen, can I maybe get your number? Call you to get a coffee sometime?
Me: Oh… yeah…sure. Ok. 646 – wrong digit…
Guy 2: great, I’ll send you a text right now so you have mine…
Me: did I say wrong digit? I meant 5…
Guy 2: sending you a message…
Me: ok then. Great… let me put you in my contacts.
My contacts now have a ‘don’t pick up! Russian guy!’ in them.
Lesson learned: I really need to stop giving my number to strangers, because I already have FIVE “don’t pick up!” contacts in there. This is getting ridiculous.
And then I thought I’d seen the light and my future all together…
Me: hey, question…
Guy 3 (puts hand gently on my back while leaning in) of-a course.
Me: So my friends an I were wondering how old you are, and now we don’t get along, so if you could help us out…
Guy 3: Ah! I am-a twenty-a seven. Did-a you win?
Me: no- unfortunately 27 is not even close to what I hoped. I mean ‘guessed’
Guy 3: so how-a old are-a you?
Me: you don’t ask a woman for her age! But it’s ‘too old for you’.
Guy3: I canna not-a believe that! You look-a so young!
Me: oh, look at you being all cute. And Italian, I assume.
Guy 3: yes!
Me: yeah, your hand still on my back gave that away, really.
Guy 3: what-a-you-say?
Me: I said ‘good for you!’ So what do you do exactly?
Guy 3: I am-a an engineer. How-a about you?
Me: I’m in interior designer with a couple of hobbies on the side.
Guy 3: So are-a you and you’re-a friends going elsewhere after-a this?
Me: Meh. Home, I assume.
Guy 3: No! you can-a not-a go home! You should-a go out!
Me: Yeah, not really, though… I need to go kill myself now I figured out that the cute guys are not longer just gay anymore.
I may just have thought that last sentence. Out loud.
Lesson learned: cute guys may be Italian. Italian men are players. Especially if they are 27 and pure eye-candy and super smart… and 27 is too young, period.
But at least I got out of that situation before I gave my number – or someone else’s. If I don’t come up with a few good excuses, pretty soon all of Manhattan will be calling me and I’m pretty sure there’s only so much “don’t pick-up!’s” I can put in my phone…
So I started practicing excuses…
Phone!? I don’t have a phone! I’m Belgian, asshole! – includes a slap in the face and dramatic spin + walk towards the exit.
I’m sorry… I’m married….No, we decided to tattoo each other’s name on our bums instead of rings. You know, a little more original.
I’m sorry… my therapist says it’s too soon for me to start dating again… after I set my lasts boyfriends car on fire and all – long story.
My number… I don’t know. Let me check my horoscope if today is a good day for that… No. Oh no. Mars is in my seventh house and Mercurius is going backwards… no can do.
My number? Ok! I’ll write it on this twenty dollar bill that I’ll use to pay my cab with, and if by any chance you’ll ever get it, we know it’s meant to be PLUS we have a great story to tell at the wedding! Yay!!
It may need a little more fine-tuning, but I’m close.
PS: also, before someone else says it: my mom is right. I am picky.