Home Sweet Home

I am enjoying my first week at home after a whirlwind month of May. I flew out to Vancouver at the beginning of the month, then went to my parents' house for a few days, and returned to the city only to head out to Martha's Vineyard last week. I'm just starting to get into the rhythm of my daily life at home and enjoying sleeping in my own bed.

My week in Canada was filled with family and nonstop eating of amazing food. (E and I sampled some pigeon, an Asian-Canadian specialty. It was surprisingly juicy and delicious and even the head is edible. I grossed E out by munching on the skull and beak.) The highlights, in addition to finding out that I am cool, are below:

1) Attending a Mathlete competition, complete with a lightning round and buzzers. As if that wasn't nerdy enough, my 8-year old cousin actually won the fifth grade division (he's only in fourth grade). He won a new Wii and got an awesome trophy and an even awesomer t-shirt.

2) My attempt to start an Olympic curling career. Since I am getting on in years, I figured out a few years ago during the Beijing Olympics that the number of events I could actually compete in are getting pretty limited. At this point, they're pretty much limited to archery and shooting in the Summer Olympics and curling in the Winter Olympics.

So I conveyed my desire to curl to my uncle, thinking that's what Canadians do for fun, right? Well, he called around to all the curling rinks in the area and they were already closed for the season. Apparently it's too expensive to keep the ice frozen during the summer, so they shut the rinks down in the off-season.

Which means my curling career was thwarted right from the very beginning. I was really looking forward to it: the weird shoes, the giant stone, the yelling, "Pull! Pull!" without understanding what it means, everything.

Even more embarrassing than my inability to find out if I am a natural curler, my 8-year old cousin doesn't really grasp sarcasm yet, so he asked me in all seriousness, "Why do you want to win an Olympic medal so badly? Why don't you try figure skating?"

To which I had to explain to him that I was just joking about the whole Olympic thing because I am far too old to really win a medal at this point. And that if I had wanted to compete in figure skating, I would've had to start training over twenty years ago. Especially since Yuna Kim and Mao Asada who respectively won the gold and silver medals this past year in Vancouver were both 19. I'm pretty sure that alone puts me out of contention...not to mention my inability to skate.

3) Spending time with my three-year old cousin, who is a technological savant. The kid can't speak in full sentences, but he can operate an iPad faster than anyone I know. He does everything on it: watches movies, plays games, watches YouTube videos on video games he likes.

One day we went to the mall and assuming he was like every other normal kid on the planet, I stopped at the kids' play area to see if he wanted to play. But he ferociously shook his head and pointed down the right. So I followed his directions and pushed his stroller right into the Apple store. Turns out he wanted to play with the iPhones. I would've been sad about it if I wasn't so busy being impressed.

I hadn't seen him for about a year and what was most fascinating was that since I saw him last, he's developed a personality. He is funny and inquisitive, has active likes and dislikes, and has a penchant for being violent (he likes to throw things and has a history of beating up his brother and sister, who are both about four times his size). He already loves sports, especially baseball and hockey (after all, he is Canadian), so they plan on enrolling him on teams in the near future in the hope that it will be a healthy outlet for his aggression.

Perhaps the best part of the trip was the way he would wake sister E and I up in the morning. Usually he'd wake up and call for his Mommy, but during our stay, at 10:30AM promptly in the morning, while E and I were still in bed, the doorknob would start rattling and a little voice would call out to us. He'd eventually stand up on his tiptoes and maneuver the handle to find his way in and then would climb into bed to talk to us in his barely comprehensible baby babble. It was utterly adorable and I still miss his morning wake-up calls.

The subsequent week in the Vineyard was the epitome of relaxing. S and I spent our days sitting out on her porch and beach, eating the best food New England has to offer (How do they make their clam chowder so good?! I'm convinced they put crack in it. Seriously, I don't even know why we bother with this "Manhattan clam chowder" nonsense; it's so inferior it doesn't even deserve the title of "chowder.), and booking our trip to Europe in August (Our itinerary consists of: Vienna, Prague, Budapest, and Croatia and yes, we can't wait!).

After all the traveling though, it is nice to be home, especially since it is my favorite time of year when it's warm out and I can spend my days sitting in Central Park or out by my parents' pool, but it's not so humid and warm that yet that I don't even have the energy to go outside (I'm talking about you, August, but luckily this year I will be in Europe for the majority of the muggy NYC season.).

And since I don't have another weekend away planned until July, it looks like I will be spending the majority of June enjoying summertime in the city. Couldn't be happier.

Middle School Musical

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Meet the Browns

So my friends and I have this running joke that Brown University isn't a real educational institution. There's no particular reason for this other than the fact that the students there are permitted to create their own majors and when we were driving through Rhode Island once, we were going to stop at Brown to get something to eat but weren't able to since there wasn't one sign on the highway alerting us to the exit for Brown University.

Which has led us to believe it's some sort of invisible or imaginary school, somewhat like Hogwarts, but with a lot less magic and awesome.

A few Saturdays ago I was hanging out with my friend L. She had just been set up with this guy and had made tentative plans to hang out with him that night, but when she texted him to see if they were still on, he replied, "Playing beirut all day, so don't expect anything fancy tonight."

Which is just a bizarre response, unless he was kidding, but I'm not sure that he was. So after some back and forth they decided on a bar that isn't very conducive to a date - it is on a boat in the pier, sells buckets of beers, and tends to be the meeting ground for ex-still-wannabe-current-frat boys. So she asked me to tag along since his friends would be there as well, and therefore she'd have backup if it was awful.

So after getting there and acquiring a bucket of beer, L and I met up with the guy, who turned out to be pretty nice but announced that twenty of his closest friends were about to join us because it was his birthday.

Pause.

That's right, he had made a date with L on the night before his birthday and then tricked her into attending his birthday party instead. I was somewhat puzzled and more curious to meet his "friends," because now I wasn't sure if he had any.

True to his word, ten girls and guys showed up shortly and a flurry of awkward introductions were made, since they all asked how I knew the birthday boy and I had literally met him ten minutes prior.

It turns out they all went to Brown together. Like all of them. As in L and I were the only ones that couldn't join the Brown University Alumni Association. Apparently they still hang out together all the time.

Now, I have no problem with people staying close to college classmates. Some of my best friends are my friends from college. But I said some. As in I have made other friends throughout the years and now my social circle consists of people from a wide variety of backgrounds. Which is natural in a city like New York where there are so many people.

That is why I am slightly wary whenever I meet people that exclusively socialize with their group of friends from college. I know some guys like that from my own college, guys that were fraternity brothers and still live together in disgusting apartments with kegs. Basically, they are trying to live out their fraternity years as long as physically possible. And I personally find that wrong and weird on multiple levels.

So yes, I was slightly weirded out by the Brown kids and felt incredibly awkward and out of place, so I started texting my friend S to come up with an exit strategy.

Me: I am surrounded by these really annoying brown people and it makes me want to vomit.

S: That may be the most racist text I've ever seen.

Me: No no!!!! I meant people that went to Brown University! It wasn't racist at all! If anything it was schoolist!

S: Uh huh.

Me: No seriously! I mean it! They're all really white and really really preppy! Popped collars!

S: Sure.

Me: Really! There's a guy here wearing those Brooks Brothers khakis that have stuff all over them. His have American Flags. He keeps standing up and pointing out how patriotic his pants are. And it's nowhere close to July 4th.

S: Oh, gross.

Me: Yeah, I know.

S: That sounds terrible.

After my escape plan failed due to my accidental racism, I struck up a conversation with the birthday boy's roommates, during which they let me in on the fact that they have lived together since college, for seven years now (warning flags, anyone else?).

I informed them that is almost long enough to be in a common law marriage in NY, at which point they got VERY excited.

Roommate 1: Ohhh I'm going to use your health insurance!

Roommate 2: You better start making some money so you can support me!

Me: You two are pretty excited about this. Have you guys ever been, ahem, more than friends?

Roommate 1: That's my girlfriend sitting over there.

Roommate 2: But yeah, there was that one time.

Roommate 1: Which time?

Roommate 2: You know, the time, in my bed.

Roommate 1: Oooooh yeah! That time!

Me: Are you guys messing with me? What time is this?

Roommate 1: No, no. There was this one time when my sister was staying over so I let her take the bed, and I was going to sleep on the loveseat in the living room, which was really uncomfortable. So when he got home he told me I could sleep in his bed.

Roommate 2: I have a really large king bed, so I didn't care if he slept in my bed as long as he stayed on the other side.

Roommate 1: Yeah, and I didn't want to sleep with my legs in the air on the loveseat, so I was all about it. So we go to sleep, on opposite sides of the bed. And in the morning I wake up, and I feel a hand rubbing me on the chest. And it feels really good! So I let it go for about a minute. Then I open my eyes.

Me: And you saw that it was the hand of a man and freaked out?

Roommate 1: Welll I opened my eyes and I saw these bamboo sticks he has on his wall, and I got confused and was like, "Where am I?" And then I looked over and realized it was him.

Roommate 2: So I can't help it. I have these sleep issues where I all into such a deep sleep that you could punch me and I wouldn't know it. I've sleepwalked other places and have no recollection of it. Plus I wake up every morning spooning my pillow, so I guess that night I thought he was my pillow.

Me: Yes, because the hairy chest of man has the exact same feeling as a pillow...

Roommate 2: I don't remember! I guess he kicked me and woke me up.

Roommate 1: I shook him and said, "Dude you were touching my chest!" And he just mumbled something and went back to sleep.

Roommate 2: Whatever!

I was pretty amused by this story. I don't know too many comfortable heterosexual guys that would tell this story to a stranger and laugh about it. In fact, the last time I heard of two hetero men sharing the same bed at a hotel, they made a point of telling me that they slept on the opposite sides of the bed on the edge and had no contact whatsoever.

I should've just called it a night at this point, because clearly things weren't going to get better. However, on my way off the boat to go to another bar, I saw a girl slip in a puddle and as I started to laugh at her, I slipped in the exact same puddle, and totally wiped out.

Full on, legs in the air, skirt flew up, crashed onto my back on the ramp bit it. And somehow in the process, I also managed to unlock my phone and speed dial my parents. So they received a voice mail of me screeching and cursing. My mom was quite confused and asked me later if I had been drunk. I responded that I wish I had been because it would've hurt less and been less embarrassing.

In retrospect, I was obviously being punished for my racist text message earlier. But really, it was all a misunderstanding. I'm not a fan of Brown people, Brown with a capital B!

The giant bruise on my back will be a reminder to never again make that mistake.

Oot and Aboot, Eh

I'm in Vancouver, Canada to spend some time with my family and bask in the aftermath of the last Olympic games. I try to visit Vancouver once every few years to soak in the scenery of British Columbia (I say this with no irony whatsoever, it is truly beautiful up here), eat lots of really good food, and hang out with my cousins and favorite uncle.

Now, it's obvious that Canada is a different country, but for some reason, it's easy to forget. My mom was under the impression that you don't need a passport to get there and we had to rush my sister's passport to her in San Francisco so that she can cross the border to meet me in Vancouver. When I let her know we were doing this she replied, "At SFO if you're flying to Canada you go to the domestic terminal. Canada is America's hat!"

What's truly odd about it is that immigration in Canada is pretty tough on Americans crossing the border. The last time I went to Vancouver, I was joking around that I shouldn't even need my passport to go, and one of my friends warned me, "Oh no, be careful. They are really thorough. I went there for work just for a day a month ago and they grilled me to find out if I was doing a job that could be accomplished by a Canadian."

I laughed it off, but of course, when I got into Canada, the immigration officer asked me more questions than I have ever been asked entering another country, not even in the years I lived in Tokyo. He had me tell him the address I was staying at, who I was staying with, the names and ages of my cousins, the last time I had been in the country, when I planned on returning to the US, etc, etc. It was baffling.

Of course when I told my friends I would be out of town for a week to go to Canada, it ignited a firestorm of laughter. My friend T happens to be a proud Canadian from Toronto and second to his unnatural love of cats, our favorite thing to make fun of him about is his Canadian citizenship.

My GRE essay was about how Canadians have an inferiority complex to Americans, their tendency to be the red-headed stepchild of North America. I used the South Park Movie Bigger Longer, and Uncut as an example to back up my argument. I remember writing the essay (in my defense, I was really tired, in pain because I had just broken my foot, and slightly zoned out on painkillers) and thinking to myself that I hoped the person who graded my essay wasn't Canadian because then there would be no way I was getting into graduate school.

Well, I turned out getting a perfect score on the essay and when I told T about it, he said, "Oh great, not only did you write a racist essay, but the person who graded your essay was also racist. You must be proud."

I am, actually, and my only regret is that I wasn't able to receive a copy of my essay so that I could show people all the valid points I made about Canada's inferiority complex.

The fact is it's just so easy to make fun of Canadians! They are like Americans, but nicer, more laid back, with funny inflections and access to universal healthcare. Their national sports are lacrosse and hockey. Curling is a really big deal. Bryan Adams. The fact that T once told me that Celine Dion is a national treasure. They put cheese curd and gravy on fries and call it poutine. Vomit.



And strangest of all, they drink their milk out of bags. The first time I heard this, I had a hard time grasping it, but yes, instead of buying milk in cartons, they buy them in giant gallon bags and then place them in plastic pitchers for storage. Apparently this is more environmentally friendly than cartons, but also tends to spoil faster (unsurprisingly).



It's these little differences that set us apart from our neighbors to the north. And also what makes them so lovable.

When I was watching the Olympics with my father, he pointed out that Alexandre Bilodeau "looked so Canadian." And when I asked him what exactly a Canadian looks like, he responded, "You know. He's really handsome but not at all in an arrogant way. If an American guy was that good-looking, he'd be all full of himself about it. But instead, he's just humble and nice."

So, apparently, that is the Canadian look: good-looking but unassuming about it. At least, according to my father. I am only mildly concerned that he will leave my mother for a Canadian man.

For now, I am just going to avoid the poutine and the milk bags, and enjoy my time in the Great White North until I have to return to the land where the handsome guys are full of themselves and douchebags. Which, honestly, though it was definitely not my father's intention, is a pretty decent description of New York.

But, oh well, as they would say in French-speaking Canada(which is a distinction from French-speaking France), "C'est la vie."

What's Love Got To Do With It

I grew up with this romantic fairy-tale notion that if two people love each enough, it can conquer all and they should be together, despite the obstacles. After all, that's the idea we've been fed, right? That love is the end-all be-all and nothing else should matter as long as there's love.

When I read Little Women in third grade, I remember being devastated that Jo and Laurie didn't end up together. I mean, he married her bratty sister Amy. WTF?! They were best friends and clearly loved each other, so in my eight-year old head,I simply could not comprehend why Jo rejected his proposal and the two of them didn't get married. What kind of happy ending is that?

Now, almost twenty years later, I think Louisa May Alcott is a genius, in more ways than one. Although they cared for each other, Jo knew that Laurie wasn't the right man for her and that if they married, they would destroy each other. And even though I couldn't understand it at the time, I totally get it now.

I read Kristin Chenoweth's book of memoirs A Little Bit Wicked last night partly because I love her and partly out of curiosity about her on-again off-again romance with my idol Aaron Sorkin (the brilliant writer of A Few Good Men, Sports Night, and The West Wing).

And it was absurdly clear that they are in awe of each other's talent, have a tremendous respect for one another, and there's a lot of love between the two of them.

But sometimes, that's not enough.

Their coupledom seems to be fraught with complications. She's a Southern Christian; he's New York Jewish. She has never done drugs; he's had a public battle with cocaine. And as a girl who's had trouble just dating people outside of her political affiliation, I have no idea how they reconcile those differences.

This all got me thinking that sometimes, even if two people really do love each other as much as is possible, sometimes they still shouldn't be together. It makes practical sense, that being in love doesn't necessarily mean that you are meant to spend the rest of your lives together. Sometimes, people just don't work well together in relationships, romantic or otherwise.

For example, I've had friends throughout the years that I have loved dearly and still consider close, but I only speak to them once in a while or see them on certain occasions. Sometimes friendships evolve to a place where both of you can can live with it and continue, but it wasn't how the relationship might have looked in the beginning.

And I have loved people, a few some people, with all my heart and had images of wedding dresses and babies in the future, only to discover that would not be a plausible future.

When I broke up with love of my life to date, my college boyfriend, my mother's words of condolence were that I wasn't accommodating enough to make it work (she's notoriously unsympathetic, E and I have been slapped with this lesson multiple times throughout the years). This may or may not be true; I am not particularly accommodating, but I also think we had too many differences and issues to have lasted.

He is now engaged to someone else and they're getting married this summer and from what I can tell from the outside, she is much more similar in personality and life goals to him than I am. Which I have come to realize doesn't mean that we weren't tremendously in love years ago; we just weren't compatible.

And had we stuck it out, which apparently depended on my accommodation level, I'm positive it would've ended in divorce and/or physical injury. Hopefully his upcoming nuptials fare better.

I think sometimes the couples that you root for (I'm talking to you Kate Winslet and Sam Mendes) and are obviously in love, still have "irreconcilable differences" and just can't make it work together. Which is never easy to face, especially if there is still love there.

I guess it's sometimes too much to ask to fall madly in love with someone who you could actually make it work with and grow together with over the years instead of apart.

Perchance To Dream

Years ago I landed my dream job and showed up for my first day in my Theory suit and 3-inch high Louboutins, pretty much as excited as a person can possibly be. I walked out that first day with a burnt hand (coffee accident), blisters from wearing heels all day, and the realization that perhaps this wasn't going to be the job I had envisioned it to be.

I didn't last very long, just long enough to be sure that I couldn't make it work, and after that I was saddled with this nagging concern: What am I going to do now? I was only twenty-five and already jaded with the notion that I no longer had any goals to work toward since my dream job had turned out to be miserable.

I was thinking about this today after a conversation with a friend last night who said she had a similar experience when she got laid off from her company about a year ago and she commented in passing, "I never thought I would end up working in finance; I never saw myself doing this."

It made me wonder how many others feel the same way.

I don't know too many people that LOVE their jobs. No one is a huge fan of working. But I do know a few people, a really small select few, who do have an earnest passion for what they do.

My father, towards the end of his career, was one of these people. He is this complete math and finance nerd who used to read textbooks cover to cover just for the fun of it and thrived in a quantitative position at his firm. But even he took many, many years to get to that place, and was terribly unhappy for about two decades while he was working up the corporate ladder.

I think, on principle, it is hard to take something you love and make a career out of it, and the people that have enough talent and passion to do so are almost inevitably successful.

A decade ago, when I was 17 and graduating from High School, I had no real idea what I wanted to do with my life, which is pretty on par for a 17-year old, but surprisingly, I have come back full circle to where I thought I would like to be. I knew I wanted to write and that I loved to read and somehow along the way I'd like to be able to figure out how to build a career around that.

It wasn't until years later in college that I took my first marketing course and got interested in fashion and my career goals shifted. It's funny how things like that work out.

After all, it's the road blocks that define who we will become. Or I'm just paraphrasing what Steve Jobs said at a Stanford Commencement Speech in 2005.

"I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple...Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle."

And I think Conan O'Brien said it best at his farewell address from The Tonight Show: "Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get, but if you work really hard, and you’re kind, amazing things will happen. I’m telling you, amazing things will happen."

Pretty inspiring words.

The eHarmony Sequel

So Part One of my eHarmony experiment was not particularly successful by any definition. Thus, I did not have high hopes for the subsequent chapter.

I was matched up with this guy a few weeks ago who I thought was pretty cute, especially in comparison to the rest of the dudes on eHarmony. However, when I sent his picture to little sister E for her assessment, she didn't seem to agree.

E: He looks like a leprechaun!

Me: He does not!

E: Yes he does, you better watch out for him, I bet he's tricky.

Me: What?

E: If you go out with him, you'll have to keep an eye on him or he'll steal your money.

Me: Yeah I'm pretty sure that's not how leprechauns work...I think they just guard a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

E: But where does he GET the gold?

Me: I don't know, but he doesn't steal it. And even if he did, I don't really carry gold coins on my person on a regular basis.

(Side Note: I looked it up and apparently leprechauns acquire their gold through their day job of mending and making shoes, not stealing. However, they are known to be quite tricky so if you catch one, you need to hold on to him and keep your eyes on him at all times or he will fool you into turning away for a second and hide his pot of gold.)

E: Well, you should still be really careful. He might be a trickster. Are you going to go out with him anyway?

Me: I don't know, he's working late this week so we're trying to figure out a time. He was at the office until midnight last night.

E: Wait, what does he do? Outside of St. Paddy's Day parades and Lucky Charms commercials, of course.

Me: He is a lawyer! He is not a leprechaun! Stop saying that!

(Side Note: Is it weird that I find the making/mending shoes career to be more attractve than the lawyer thing? I mean, I have a LOT of shoes and I don't really require legal advice but fixing my shoes would actually bring something to the table...)

E: Well, I would still bring a friend with you. To make sure he doesn't trick you.

So, even though I didn't agree with E's opinion that eHarmony is a leprechaun, I asked my friend S to possibly screen this dude to see if he is, in fact, a leprechaun.

S: Well, how tall is he?

Me: His profile says he's 5'10".

S: Oh, then you have nothing to worry about! He's clearly not a leprechaun!

Me: I'm glad that you had to ask his height before you confirmed that he isn't a leprechaun.

S: Well, I had to make sure!

Me: Oh, man, what if he's Irish? Or he looks like this?



S: If he shows up and he has an Irish accent, I will laugh my ass off.

Me: If he shows up and he's Irish, I will have to run out of the bar.

After a few scheduling glitches, the Leprechaun and I finally got it together and planned on grabbing drinks on a Friday night while S and I were at a bar.

To prepare for the impending awkwardness and the possibility of meeting a real life leprechaun, S and I started downing shots so I was slightly toasted before he even showed up. Which in retrospect was a terrible idea because if he really HAD been a leprechaun I would have been too drunk to keep an eye on him until he led me to his pot of gold.

Anyways, he showed up at the bar and he was over two feet tall and his only magical power seemed to be that of being able to bring a conversation to an immediate halt with his awkwardness.

He wasn't exactly capable of carrying on a conversation even when given a direct question to answer and S and I continued to glance at each other over the table to raise our eyebrows at each other. And even more awkward, within half an hour he waved at someone across the bar and said, "Oh I invited one of my friends here," which he hadn't mentioned previously.

So his friend showed up with an entourage of six guys who sat down at our table, introduced themselves, and asked how we all knew each other. After a moment of silence, the Leprechaun answered, "We met on the internet."

And his friend asked me, "eHarmony?! Are you on eHarmony?!"

To which I had an entire group of guys turn to look in my direction and gawk.

"To be fair," I told them, "I am a writer and I was doing it as a social experiment so I would have writing material."

As everyone processed this, the Leprechaun asked me, "So if I had taken you out on a date and tried to kiss you, would it have showed up on the internet for the world to see?"

I blushed and laughed awkwardly (seriously, who asks a question like that in front of seven strangers?) and told him I was deferring to my counsel but I was going to plead the fifth.

More shots were consumed by the table and at this point, I realized the room was starting to spin and I wasn't going to be able to make it through the rest of the night if I continued to partake in shots. So I bowed out of the next few rounds, but it was already too late.

Now, this is totally my bad and I take full responsibility for what subsequently followed, but before Leprechaun had officially committed to coming to the bar, I had let my current boy toy, Yawn, know where S and I would be that evening. And through no planning whatsoever, we were at a bar across from the bar he was at.

So when he texted me to tell me he was coming to meet us, my alcohol-riddled brain couldn't think of one reasonable excuse to tell him not to come. When he walked into the bar (keep in mind, S and I are the only girls at a table of half a dozen guys and I am technically on a first date), he came over to give me a hug, sat down next to me, and introduced himself to the rest of the table.

The less-drunk part of my brain thought I could still get away with this if I played it cool and pretended he was just a friend and no one brought up e-Harmony again. However, I was much too drunk to be playing anything smooth at this point, and according to S, within five seconds of sitting down next to me, the rest of the table knew from our body language and the way we acted with one another that he was not just a friend.

S texted me from across the table, "Leprechaun looks sad. I think you crushed him."

Shortly after that, Leprechaun took off, leaving his friends with us, which was kind of strange, but I know now it's because one of the guys had taken a hankering to S and thought he could get somewhere with her.

A little while later, I got that impending feeling of doom, that I was not going to be able to keep down all the alcohol I had just sucked down, and I told Yawn, "I have to go home. Now."

The second I got through the door, I bee-lined for the bathroom and that was where I remained for the next hour. I remember thinking to myself, as I was hugging the toilet, that this was my punishment for having crushed someone'e soul and for dicking over a leprechaun. Those fellows don't take kindly to being messed with.

In addition to getting sick, I woke up the next day at the crack of dawn with a terrible hangover headache and lay there thinking that I had gotten what I deserved. Like seriously, if I was on a date with a guy and he brought another girl, well I would probably punch him in the balls. As my guy friend R later said to me while laughing at me, "Maybe next time, you shouldn't bring your boyfriend on a date."

Not being totally evil, I did (do) feel bad about the whole crushing of Leprechaun's soul and all, so I sent him a casual but apologetic text saying that I was sorry the evening had been awkward and perhaps we shouldn't have had multiple parties present. Unsurprisingly, I did not get a response and really don't expect to any time ever.

All in all, it wasn't my best performance, but at least I didn't get my gold stolen by a little bearded man wearing green.

And in case you were keeping score, it's now eHarmony: 3, Me: 0.