I once noticed, while waiting for NJ transit to ferry me to the safety of New York, that the official seal of the great state of New Jersey is in fact an artist’s representation of two women seductively eyeing each other, their hands moving towards one another on top of a crest of hoes that are plowing a field. If two women holding hands next to some hoes isn’t enough to tell you that this state is gay, then I don’t know what is.
Seeing that the state’s primary prized export is, well, gay women, I think it only makes sense that the only good date I have ever been on in New York involved a Jersey Girl last week. I’d met Laura on New Year’s Eve at Stonewall, while running away from a woman at least thirty years my senior who kept slurring the word “sexy” at me.
So I rang in 2011 by making out with Laura for a couple of hours, until it was last call at the club, the ugly lights came on, and the DJ played Michael Jackson’s, “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough.” Happy New Year to me!
Laura and I stayed in touch throughout the week, and I prepared by getting a manipedi, choosing a glittery red nail polish color called, “The Show Must Go On” which seemed appropriate. Before the date, I blasted some Usher to bolster my confidence. “Dance, dance, like it’s the last, last night of your life, life…hmm hmm hmm hmm!” I paced nervously, humming the song to myself and putting on eyeshadow, while listening my friend Rita, a fashion magazine columnist, talk about things and accidents that could potentially kill you.
“I’m nervous.” I said. “What if something terrible happens?”
“Oh, you mean like cancer?”
“No Rita. The date.”
“Speaking of death, I am so anxious right now,” I said, feigning exhaustion and collapsing into a chair with the back of my hand on my forehead.
“Ugh. Come here,” she said, taking out some hair product and fluffing up my ‘do. “Mascara. We need some of that. Where the hell is your eyeliner? Blend! Blend! Blend!” Rita worked quickly and with precision, as though she were a dedicated surgeon and my face the ER itself.
Within the hour, I met up with Laura, who was very clearly dolled up in a pretty dress and we went to an Italian restaurant. The entire menu was unpronounceable. We sat there for quite some time staring at it, and I was of no help, having not studied Italian a day in my life. We also decided we wanted wine, were presented with a wine menu the size of the Old Testament, and couldn’t make a decision there either.
“Would you like to order?” asked the waiter.
“Well, ah, to be honest, I have no idea what the hell any of this even says!” said Laura, laughing. “Esther, what are you getting?”
“Well, then I’ll have that too,” she said. We asked the waiter what the best red wine was and just followed his suggestion.
I had to control the urge to burst out laughing at the ridiculous nature of the situation—we go to an Italian restaurant reputable for its authentic cuisine, order lasagne of all things and then just point at any random wine selection in a book of at least three hundred? Hilarious! What we lacked in Italian, we didn’t lack in English, and talked on and on about art, literature, and gayness for a good two hours.
After dinner, we decided to go see, “Black Swan.” Now, when we got to the theater, it was surprisingly sold out. I’d thought about getting tickets through Fandango earlier, but didn’t want to rush Laura. So we googled the next closest theater and got there about thirty minutes in advance. It was sold out again! And the next showing not for another hour and a half.
“I don’t mind waiting for the next one,” said Laura, shrugging. “I mean, if I were having a horrible time with you, I’d just leave, but since I’m having a great time with you, let’s go get drinks!”
Not knowing where else to go, we googled the closest well-rated bar, La Biblioteca, and entered its swanky confines. Boasting $100 bottles of Tequila and a crowd of snobby upper-class straight people, we felt it necessary to just make out in the middle of the establishment, thereby confusing everyone there, and nearly ordered a dirty martini and a PBR from the bartender. And then, over the background noise of the people, I heard on the speakers: “Dance, dance, like it’s the last, last night of your life, life…”
“Whoa heyyyy…too bad we have to get going. I feel like dancin’ now,” said Laura, who was fist pumping. FIST PUMPING!
Well, suffice it to say, nothing terrible happened. At no point during the date did she reveal a marriage, a crazy ex-girlfriend, jail time, or anything else to be concerned about. Nothing. The only terrifying parts of the date were the bloody scenes in Black Swan. That was about it. It was completely non-terrible and anti-bad. Thanks New Jersey, for staying true to your t-shirts sold the shore—Jersey Girls really ARE the best in the world!
I’d write more, but I’ve got to go GTL before I see this one again on Wednesday.