I'm back! And I'm attempting to write every day. Yes, via blog. I can be 2008-era hip.
I figured that the best way to go about this was to assign a theme to each day. I can't think of anything my Type-A self loves more than structured days! From here on in, this is what I'm going to attempt to do every week:
Monday: FunDay. Also known as Dare Day. You send me a dare that doesn't violate my ethics or put me in danger, I take you up on it. I'll try to do this weekly and post a summary/video every Monday.
Tuesday: Top Ten Tuesday. Because it wouldn't be a blog without lists or alliteration.
Also scotch.
Thursday: Throwback! Stories and pictures from my past. Probably embarrassing. Definitely embarrassing.
Friday: F**k It Fridays. This will probably be about me getting over one of my many neuroses (a neurotic actress? Noooooo).
Saturday: Rant Day. This blog IS called Opinionated Short Girl, after all.
Sunday: I rest. And I brunch.
Today, I present a story from my single days that was recently read at Grown Up Story Time, a monthly series presented by BooTown Boston. I've worked with them as a reader and a writer, and it is a fantastic way to spend a Wednesday night! Did I mention it takes place at a brewery?
Millionaire’s NO
I met him in December 2009. I was in my 20’s, living in New York, single, fine with that, but interested in finding someone who could tell great stories and make me laugh. My past few semi-quasi relationships had been with actors who were consistently younger than me, so on my most recently edited mental list of dating don’ts were the following words: “No one younger, no New York actors, no more corn-fed, small-town boys who turn into assholes in a big city.”
I met him while I was “modeling” for Rockport Shoes in Columbus Circle. Big quotation marks around “modeling”. When you’re a promotional model, you’re not signed to any agency or hailed as the next big anything, but if you clean up nice and can speak the branding points, you can eke out a living…Or at least you could in the early aughts. For this job, I was supposed to stand for eight hours in high heels and tell consumers how comfortable this was. Unsurprisingly, I was miserable, so on my break I hobbled to a Borders Cafe (remember those?) and sat down with a giant, sighing “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” of relief.
This vulgar proclamation made the man next to me turn around, a concerned expression on his face.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, you were swearing in public, so I didn’t know if something was wrong.”
“This is New York City, everyone swears in public. Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
“That explains it.”
He bought me a tea, we talked a bit, and I found out that he currently stationed by his job in Toronto, that he was in and out of town for the winter for work, that he was older than me…Check check check! When he asked me out for dinner, I practically threw my bloodied shoes in the air with joy. I limped triumphantly back to my friend Danielle, another actress trading on her ability to walk and talk at the same time and told her about the great guy I had just met. She looked dubious, especially as he walked by and checked in with me about our date. After he left she turned to me and said “…I think the blood from your head has drained to your feet.”
Negativity be damned, I could go back to Massachusetts for Christmas knowing I’d be taken on a real date by a real adult in the New Year. Real dates and great on paper men: this is what women were supposed to want, right?
A week after I got back to the city, I received a message from him, asking me out to dinner that evening. After I agreed to go out, I was informed that he was taking the train in from DC for the night just to take me out on a date. No pressure. Having never experienced this before, I showed the message to my roommate, Ruvi.
“He thinks you’re gonna screw him.”
“What? No! I haven't even spent an hour with him.”
“Yeah, but he’s coming in from another city just to take you out; what are you going to do?”
“Congratulate him on his free will. Maybe I should cancel.”
As I was saying this, another message came through. His assistant had made reservations for us at Nobu57. Well, damn. At the time, the downtown Nobu was one of the hottest places to go, and the uptown location was drawing just as many glitterati. Ruvi stared at my phone, then back at me. “Girl, you’re going.”
She helped me put together the perfect Upper West Side Outfit, did a round of Jameson with me to calm my nerves, and sent me on my way to meet him. I messaged him at the metro station:
So which hotel are you staying at?
The Trump Plaza. I’ll be here for tonight, then back to DC, then Africa, then Italy for work.
You travel around the world for work, can stay at the Plaza, and can do Nobu? What are you, in the mob or something?
His reply: LOL.
How comforting.
When I got to the hotel, he was wearing what might be the most ridiculous outfit I have seen anyone wear on a date. The pink and purple tight button-down, the coordinated bright blue suspenders, the way too tight pants…It looked like what someone who was slightly out of touch but well off would wear if they walked into Saks and said to themselves “I must find what the trendy people are wearing these days!” It was a far cry from the downtown dive bars and t-shirt and jeans-clad dates I was used to. It was a far cry from the smell of whiskey in the air, duct tape on the booths, and The Clash on the jukebox. It was a far cry from my comfort zone, but I kept telling myself: check, check, check. This was what I had told myself I wanted.
As we walked over to the restaurant, I made up my mind that I was going to find out what he did for work after all. After needling him for a few blocks, a surprising word came out of his mouth: “Oil”.
“Oil? You work…In oil? With oil? The oil business? You a billionaire? Ha ha!”
“I mean, not quite. But I passed the millionaire mark a long time ago.”
“…Oh.”
Well. This was a curveball. Perhaps you think that I was giddy to find out that I had snagged the interest of someone so well-off, but instead, I felt a sinking sensation. I need to make something clear: I am not comfortable with excess money. Money is power, and power-drunk people tend to suck, for lack of a better word. Combined years of bartending at corporate events and a TriBeCa bar had soured me against people who thought that a $50 was an appropriate apology for being awful to you for an entire night. So I was freaking out. I sent a furtive text to Ruvi: This dude is a millionare. Multi.
A reply came swiftly: DO NOT FUCK THIS UP.
When we got to Nobu, our table wasn’t ready. Being a city hotspot, everyone was sending their assistants to get them tables, and there had been a mistake with our reservation. I was ready to shrug it off and get a glass of wine at the bar, but then I saw Benjamin Franklin’s face floating past my shoulder and into the hand of the hostess. He pressed the bill into her palm and snidely said, “I’m sure you can find something for us now.” I looked down and blushed as we were ushered to a table. What would have been so bad about waiting a little while? Was he really that persistent about getting his own way?
It got worse. You would think someone who travels the world for work would have some fun stories, but he had none. He was rude to our waiter to the point that I am still to this day Facebook friends with the waiter - that is how much I compensated for his rudeness. He had lied about his age and had a full two decades on me, which meant we had nothing in common at this juncture in our lives, and then the final blow came via my attempt at a joke:
“I mean, I’m a non-Equity actress; if you made $40,000 a year I would think you were filthy rich, ha!”
“Ha…Well, I mean, this watch cost way more than that.” He took off and held out a gaudy gold diamond-encrusted watch. “Would you like to hold it?”
I wanted to grab it and run as fast as I could to a pawn shop, buy a ticket to Toronto, and warn all the nice Canadian people that there was a major douchecanoe in their midst. I wanted to throw it in his face. I wanted to throw it to our waiter! But instead I snuck off to the bathroom and sent another text to Ruvi: He’s awful. I can’t do this.
Her reply: Alissa - Do you know how many girls would kill to be sitting where you are right now? He’s probably socially awkward. Don’t be judgmental. Give him a chance. And drink something strong.
I followed her advice, and the evening went from awful to somewhat tolerable. When he invited me for another drink at the Plaza bar, I hesitated, but I mean…I had never been to a hotel as expensive as the Plaza. I could see the bar. Of course, the bar was closed by the time we got there. Of course, this was something he was aware of. But, he reassured me, there was plenty of alcohol in his room’s mini bar.
Son of a…What this dude lacked in personality, he made up for in being as oily as his trade. I agreed to go to the room, steeling myself for an awkward attempt at seduction. In hindsight, this was definitely not the best decision and I’m not pleased with younger me for making it. But my annoyance was now operating my entire body and brain, not logic. So up in the elevator we went.
2016 me is not shocked by this, but 2010 Alissa was shocked by how small and shabby the room was. What, was Trump a crappy businessman or something? At least the minibar was legit. When he opened it, I was looking at all of the top shelf liquor that I had served but never been able to afford on a night out, and I was impressed.
Unfortunately, he mistook that for interest and the dance began. Did I want a backrub? NOPE. Did I want to sit on the bed? No siree. Did I know he was only in town for ONE NIGHT? To SEE ME? This was the moment where I must have looked like I was about to kill him, because he finally got the hint and mentioned that it was late, and I should go. I got up from the table, accepted the $50 for cab fare that he handed me (see what I mean about rich assholes and $50’s?), and then turned to leave and felt an unwelcome hand on my ass. Are you KIDDING ME?!
I spun around and glared at him. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he smirked. And then my inner asshole came out to play, as it often does when confronted with this level of jagoff. While maintaining eye contact, I stuck my hand into the mini bar and with one swipe, knocked all of its contents into my purse, hearing clink after satisfying, fuck-you clink. “Thanks for the drink,” I snapped.
He chased me down the hallway to the elevator, and this is where I got nervous (because let’s face it, that move was kind of badass but definitely not smart). But it turned out that he wanted a goodnight kiss. Seriously? After a crappy night like that, he still wanted some kind of physical gratification? Wanting to get on the damn elevator and back to reality, I leaned in for a peck and ended up on the receiving end of the kind of sloppy, grabby kiss I thought I had escaped at 18. Hork went every nerve in my body. I leapt away, got in the elevator, into a cab, gave the driver the entire $50, and staggered to my room, just wanting to get my pajamas on. Ruvi was waiting, a disappointed look on her face. “You could have had it all, Alissa.”
“I mean, I have a lot. I have my dignity. Kind of. And free scotch!”
A few months later, I met someone who didn’t make me cringe every time he interacted with another person, and while we didn’t work out, I actually had fun and conversation on our dates. Then, in 2012, I moved to Somerville and met a guy who made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe, who I loved to watch think and observe his surroundings, who looks at me like I’m someone special, not a possession he has a right to because he bought me dinner, and I’m still with him. We don’t have a ton of money but we have mutual love and respect, and we can entertain each other with jokes and conversation even when we can’t budget out a night on the town. Oh…And he’s younger than me. And an actor.
And I wouldn’t trade us even if you waved two diamond-encrusted watches at me.
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