Don't Shit Where You Eat – Part 2

It seemed like a harmless flirtation at first.  I had begun working on a campaign with a new creative hot shot who teased me about my obsession with squats.

We worked on an athletic brand, so talk often turned to the gym.  When he found out that squats were part of my morning routine, he ragged on me relentlessly.

"How many squats did you do this morning?" He'd ask and then he'd follow with something like, "When are we going out?  Can we do squats together?"

Our banter continued in that tone for a few weeks.  I didn't think of it as something that could lead to anything.  There were lots of men at the office who flirted with me and even one or two who had asked me out to dinner.  As far as I was concerned, workplace flirtation ended where it began – shitting in the cafeteria wasn't an option.

To even further make the case against the creative hot shot, he was far from my type.  If we were at a bar, I wouldn't look twice.  He was at least an inch shorter than me, out of shape and didn't go a day without eating fast-food.  Since I had left my personal trainer, I was hitting the gym six days a week and I hadn't eaten at a McDonalds since junior high when it was on the itinerary of a school field trip.

He was also a pompous asshole.  Unfortunately, that helped his case.

I find confidence extremely captivating.  I love the battle for dominance with a guy.  Sometimes I like to win, but often I am
more content losing. I spend my day giving orders and setting other people's priorities. At the end of my day, I'm over it.  The
fact that this short, slightly pudgy guy was oozing with so much confidence was sadly appealing.

My journey down shit's creek started when I invited him to a party in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.   The train ride was over an hour long, 
giving us plenty of time to chat and one up each other with
 scandalous stories.  My stories about cutting high school to go to concerts didn't rival his stories about being mistakenly arrested in Hawaii.  Twice.

At the party that night my friend Michael went out of his way to tell me that this guy wasn't good enough for me.  Did Michael think I was sleeping with this guy?  Or that I was going to sleep with him?  I began to wonder myself. Was I going to make an even bigger shit-storm than I had when I slept with my personal trainer?  I was confused.

Meanwhile hot shot staring at me.  I gave him my standard "Are you serious? Leave me alone!" face.  He looked away.

On the subway ride back to Manhattan we continued sharing scandalous stories.  The conversation turned to sex – where was the craziest place, with who, what was the most shocking story…

He leaned in and tried to kiss me.

I gave him my face again, this time with a side of shock in the expression.   I hadn't made up my mind yet about what I was (or was not) going to
let happenwith him.  Every force in the universe was telling me no, but I was actually having a lot of fun.  Then again, he did just try to kiss me on the subway which was not sexy at all.  Think about it - underground at 1am with complete strangers on an ancient train car with finger-printed metal poles from greasy unwashed hands and an underlying smell of rancid liquor and urine in the air; why would he try to kiss me here?

"Okay…." His voice trailed off, rejected but not defeated.  We rode in silence and eventually he changed the subject.

When we finally reached 42nd street, I still hadn't made up my mind. I decided to roll with it since I wasn't tired yet.

We went to a lounge about 20 blocks from my apartment and sipped martinis until the lights went on at 4am.

When we got outside, it was drizzling.  The alcohol was pumping through my veins and with my inhibitions low, I pressed against his lips.  We kissed until the rain became unbearable and before I knew it, we were stepping out of a cab in front of my apartment.  He followed me upstairs.

In the morning I pondered aloud, "Did we really do that?"

We did that again.  It was fantastic.

Work got a bit more exciting over the next few weeks, despite how wrong I knew it was to be sleeping with someone on my team.

I was addicted to the high of it all, but I knew the shit was inevitable.  It was completely hedonistic and not at all realistic.  And even with the fun and the rush of it, my head began to cloud up with questions.  Mainly I wondered if he was sleeping with other women, particularly his ex.

Though he didn't talk about his ex much, I knew they saw each other pretty often.  I had a sense that there were unresolved issues with her.

In my gut I knew that if I asked him about it, I'd probably ruin what we had.  But what did we have, anyway?

"Are you still sleeping with your ex?"

The beginning of the end.

Don't shit where you eat, don't shit where you eat!  The office was about to get stinky.

His answer was no, but he was frustrated with me for asking about it. He wanted to know what I was looking for from him because a relationship was "out of the question."

I didn't know what I was looking for and having him tell me that a relationship was out of the question was a curveball.  Did I want a relationship with him?  How would that work?  The more I thought about it, the question was actually: how would it end, because surely it wouldn't last.

In asking friends about shitting at the office, most agreed that it is a no-go. However, there was one friend I spoke to who had actually married a coworker.  And this has helped me come to the following conclusion: if you don't think there is potential for an office fling to lead to marriage or a long-term relationship then you must just say no.

But I didn't get to be the one to say no. I was the one getting turned down.  I didn't want to lose this battle, but I was beaten.

I craved him and it messed up my judgment.  I never considered the ending stench when I made my move.

We stopped having sex.  We stopped talking.  My ego was trampled.  I was rejected by the short guy whose cardio was playing Wii on Saturday nights.

I have to walk by his desk every morning.  There is no other route to the water cooler, the kitchen, the bathroom or the
printer.  It is a constant reminder of my carelessness.  But that's what it took for me to learn my sister's lesson.


*By a still completely anonymous and even more ashamed PV staffer

Don’t Shit Where You Eat – Part 1

My sister once gave me a great piece of advice. I knew it was wise when she shared it, but I didn’t follow it. And so, unfortunately, this story has two parts as not only did I neglect to follow her advice once, but I made the same relationship mistake twice. That’s right; I took a shit in my own kitchen.

Sounds gross right? Obviously, it’s not literal, but thinking about how vulgar it is when you say it reflects how bad it is to make this mistake. Just so we’re all on the same page – this piece of advice refers to creating sexual relationships out of platonic ones – specifically among coworkers and professionals. Think about someone in your life who you see on regular basis with whom you have a strictly professional relationship – it could be a coworker, your massage therapist or even your local postal worker. Now imagine having sex with them. Bad sex. Or even good sex that you only have once. Could you still maintain the same relationship you had prior to the sex? If the answer is no, then sleeping with them would be equivalent to shitting where you eat. It ruins dinner.

The first time I made this mistake was a door-opener for round two, which was even more odious than my first. But before we get to number two, let’s start with number one.

At first, my relationship with my personal trainer was absolutely ideal. He kicked my ass and I hated his guts. As I returned for my torture session each week, we became friendly, and his guts became a little more appealing. As we slowly became friends, I began to enjoy coming to sessions even though he worked me out to exhaustion. This was ok and I definitely condone being friendly with someone you spend this much time with, however it’s when you take a professional relationship out of the platonic realm that you risk ruining what you’ve spent time building.

This trainer was a great find; he helped me get into the best shape of my life and taught me how to intensify and get the most out of my workouts. And then I ruined it all.

In my defense, you try working out with a guy who has a perfect physique, pearly white teeth, bright blue eyes and a sexy French accent without jumping his bones. Losing fifteen pounds is easier.

In between gasping for air, I did my best to flirt during our sessions. I’d ask about his weekend plans, talk about going out and make suggestive jokes when he would do things like tie my feet together and weigh them down to deepen my crunches.

Eventually, he asked to spend time with me outside of the gym. Shortly after, he was calling me every week not just to schedule workouts, but to make weekend plans together. I loved going out with him and showing him off.

At first, things continued rather normally. We were generally able to separate our physical relationship from our professional relationship. I’d work out with him in the gym one day and the next, we were at his apartment.

Things were great and I was delighted. No doubt it was a little confusing, but I felt like I was getting the best of both worlds. No complaints. That is, until things got weird.

It started with a post on my Facebook funwall.

He drew a picture of a vagina on my wall.

The thing is, I thought we had graduated from middle school. Was he drunk? Was this a language barrier?

I sent him a message: “Did you really just draw a vagina on my wall?”

I deleted the vagina before anyone else saw the shenanigan.

Then he drew a penis on my wall and sent this message, “Mister Penis wants to be with Miss Vagina.”

Language gap or straight up immaturity – it didn’t matter, this was not ok.

Had I never started a sexual relationship with my trainer, I never would’ve been exposed to this side of him and we would’ve been able to continue our trainer/trainee relationship.

I shat where I ate and now I was forced to break out a pooper scooper. How was I going to have a professional training relationship with someone who referred to body parts with a prefix of Mister and Miss?

It had to be over. All of it. I ceased communications, ignoring all of his phone calls and text messages until they eventually subsided.

Things weren’t going to be the same and now I needed a new trainer. It made for a great story and it was a great conquest, though the ending leaves a bit to be desired. I still don’t really know what to make of it. What I do know is that if I didn’t take a shit on my own kitchen table, I’d still have a great trainer.

Stay tuned for part number two where I make the same mistake again and even worse, at the office.

You’ve got to take some risks to reap the benefits of a relationship, though as I am slowly learning, some risks are better left untaken.


*By an ashamed and therefore anonymous PV staffer

How I Perfectly Met, Dated and Scared off an Adorable Italian Cinematographer

It was a wintry weekend night in December. My friend Yolanda and I were lost in Soho looking for the after party for a movie premiere we had just attended. After walking four blocks in the wrong direction, a nice group of drunk twenty-somethings mapped the route to our destination on one of their iPhones.

We had just about hit the address on Thompson Street, it had to be any one of the next few numbers... We heard reveling coming from a shop window and noticed the party-goers inside were staring at us. I stopped, trying not to be a complete fool by walking past the party we were supposed to attend and having people at the party witness me do so. I went up to the door and Yolanda followed. As I walked in to what I now realized was a coffee shop and bakery (not big enough to fit more than three or four tables), I knew that we had gone to the wrong party.

"Come in, come in!" the man sitting at the door warmly gestured to us in a thick European accent. Another man offered us drinks. Yolanda didn't realize that I had taken her to a strangers' party and so I let her in on the secret as our drinks were being concocted behind the biscotti display on the counter. She just laughed.

Another man came over to get a drink, this man had adorable dimples, messy hair and a very laid back demure. This man was the adorable Italian Cinematographer. I'll refer to him here on out as the AIC.

Yolanda and I chatted with the AIC for close to a half hour. My phone kept vibrating. The host from the movie after party was wondering why we hadn't arrived yet. I gave the AIC my number. His friend insisted we meet up with them later on at a friend's bar on Gold Street.

We didn't end up going to Gold Street later, despite his friend's invitation and the AIC's text messages. Instead, Yolanda and I opted for a late night drink and sweet potato fries at Cafeteria. I had a feeling I'd see the AIC again.

It was the following Friday that I saw him again. We went to a lounge and had Pinot Noir. We talked about our families, our friends, our jobs. He told me about his home in Milan and compared it to NYC. He found NYC far superior. His reasoning was that he found there was far greater cinema and creative talent in Manhattan.

Around 2 am when we left the lounge, I insisted that the weather was far too nice to take a taxi home. Despite that my place was 25 blocks in the wrong direction for him, he walked me all the way to my front steps. He kissed me on both cheeks and asked if he could call me again.

That Sunday night he invited me over to his place for dinner. It had been at least a year since a guy had cooked for me. I attribute that to two things: first, I'm a vegetarian which is all together difficult and confusing to a lot of men; second, this is New York City, men here don't cook, they have online food-ordering accounts.

The AIC was a great cook and it definitely felt like I could get used to his romancing. (Did I just say romance? I feel weird even typing that word). He cooked vegetable risotto and we capped the night off with Italian coffees and watched movie trailers by the director he was currently working with.

For the next week or so we'd see each other and he'd send me sweet text messages saying that taking me out was "always my pleasure" and signing off with "kisses." Who was this guy? If this was the way of the AIC, I never wanted to date an American again.

Except that I was seeing other American men. Nothing special, just fun. Deep down I knew the Italian was just fun also and not "right." I've since realized that I am too young for the "right" guy right now. If he comes along, that's great, but dating all the wrong guys is ok too and it's fun. However, I had not yet has this "wrong guy ok" realization before I sabotaged all of my AIC fun.

Here's how it went down.

We went to see Juno on a Friday night. He wanted to grab food and a drink before the movie, but I told him I was only in the mood for some tea. I wasn't feeling great and instead of telling him that I was under the weather, I just zoned out and had empty conversation. After the movie, it was only 11:30, he said he was in the mood for vino. I said that I was tired and wanted to go to sleep. I was in fact exhausted, but I made the mistake of not sugar-coating it and being a complete drag without telling him that I was getting sick.

He waited for the downtown 1 train as I waited for the uptown. I could see him across the platform and it felt like eternity before the subway got there to wisk me away.

There were no sweet text messages that night. I felt ambivalent.

A few days later, it was New Years Eve day. I was feeling better and thought I'd try to reconcile things with the AIC by getting a coffee with him in his hood. I sent him a text message, but after only a half hour with no response, I called one of the other "wrong" guys for lunch.

The AIC called and texted while I was out to lunch. I didn't answer the call and answered his text with, "Sorry, I'm out, Happy New Year."

I am an asshole.

He sent me text message "kisses" and "wishes" at 4 am on New Years. I didn't respond and I haven't heard from him since.

Maybe things didn't feel "right" with him, but as I said earlier, not being "right" isn't always wrong, especially not when you're a twenty-something in NYC. I did learn this lesson, but time and time again, I feel the need for sabotage and then it starts all over again.

Sometimes I still think about the dimples on his cheeks when he smiles.


*by Jordana

There's A Reason He's Still Single.

In my two and a half months of post long-term relationship single life, I've met a lot of men. It's amazing how many charming, cute and seemingly-eligible bachelors there are out there when you open your eyes and are ready to see them. And it's so easy to meet them. Just last week I locked eyes with a guy on the 2 train. Embarrassed, and not really wanting to get to know my fellow commuters outside of the boxcar, I looked away and rushed off the train, hiding amongst the masses of the evening rush hour. I was halfway up my block (and rocking out to Motion City Soundtrack on my iPod) when I was startled by the 2-train guy, patting my shoulder.

To my point - they are around every corner, every city block, in every cab and train, at the gym, at the grocery store, the seemingly-eligible men are everywhere I go!

Seems great, right? So many men, so little time?

Not at all.

How do I pick the good ones? Just because a guy chases me off the train, does that mean I should give him a chance? Who do I let through and who do I pass up?

Despite the hoards of men all around, meeting a decent one doesn't come easy. The curating process is a bitch.

There's just always something wrong.

Most recent loser: John.

I thought I had been a curator worthy of the finest art museums on Museum Mile. I thought I had weeded out the creeps for a real man. A smart, fun, witty and ever so cute one! I was even ready, if all continued smoothly, to drop the runners-up, the b-team and the c-team of the "mediocre but maybe this will become awesome eventually" men.

John and I had an amazing first and second date and many great conversations. Dates with John were spontaneous, but well thought-out on his part. For example, he knew how much I liked live music so he picked a show for us to go to – after which we hopped around to every dive bar on the Lower East Side before a late night dessert at Yaffa Café. Knowing I was a vegetarian, on our first date he took me to one of the best vegan restaurants in the city where we enjoyed four courses and three hours of stimulating conversation.

I knew I liked him a lot. And he seemed to like me, too. Each time I saw him he told me many times that he loved being around me, that I was amazing, smart and beautiful. Why was this man still single? How could it be that he'd lived ten years longer than me and still hadn't found anyone yet?

Of course there was a reason!

The first sign that something was off was when I called him on a Sunday night and he cut me short because he was at work. I was a little put-off by the conversation, but understood he was at the office, and who likes to chat when you're at the office on the weekend anyway? He called me back two hours later, but he was even more distant. He asked if we could just talk during the week, and, hardly listening to my reply, hung up the phone.

When the apology e-mail came 24 hours later, I was happy to agree to see him again on Valentines Day.

When he picked me up, he claimed that all the flower shops within three blocks were out of roses and he felt awful because I "deserve all the roses in the city." I swear, he really said that..

I wasn't expecting flowers and didn't care that he showed up empty-handed (really, I didn't!). What bothers me now is that he was clearly lying and I was too hung up on trying to hold onto what I thought was a good catch to question his damn line. Even if he had gone to all the flower shops within three blocks (there are about
four) and couldn't find roses, if he'd made that much effort to look, he probably would've come back with tulips or something, right?

That night he told me that he wanted to spend every second with me.
He wanted to go to work with me, sit in boring meetings with me, watch me write contracts!

And then things really went downhill.

The next day he cancelled our plans for the following night because of a hang over. On Saturday he was "visiting family til late" and on Monday, he left the lamest voicemail message: "It's definitely been a while. I blame myself. I'd really love to see you today, but I have plans. Talk to you later!"

I get it – it's over. Unfortunately, it took me those few hits to my ego because I didn't want to admit that I bagged a bad apple.

But, in life and lust and dating disasters, there's always a message:

Ahh, the reason why he's still single at 35! (That is, unless he's not actually single and has a girlfriend he's cheating on). Any way you look at it, John is a huge asshole.




*by Jordana, who wasn't sure if she should post this, but who is dedicating this to dating women everywhere. Just say no to assholes.