Aaaaaand we’re back.

I may or may not have just woken up in a pile of mozzarella sticks.

Roll over to find a sweet lil thang in my bed, sleeping peacefully on a pillow of ketchup-covered napkins.

Look around the room to make sure I made it home with the essentials: glasses, computer, and KP. Check.

Pick up my phone to survey last night’s damage. Not surprised to find a sent box full of regretsies. Will deal with that later.

Sit up to chug water and realize I can’t feel my ass. Panic before remembering yesterday’s painful workout class.

Pop 4 Advil and turn on 30 Rock. Laugh at everything that comes out of Liz Lemon’s mouth.

Go back to sleep. Dream of Alec Baldwin getting me preggers.

Wake up, 30 seconds of sadness upon realizing it was just a dream. Quickly recover.

Spend 20 minutes deciding the most appropriate 11am hangover delivery. Consult others via text, sushi beats burrito.

Put on pants. Realize I need to be at the office in an hour. Realize I overpromised when I committed to being in on a Saturday.

Look out the window at the gorgeous people headed to Fashion Week. Decide to take shower.

Wash my hair to Katy Perry on repeat. Remember taking over the DJ’s turn tables at the bar last night.

Remember more not-so-flattering details from last night.

Try to find good excuse for poor behavior.

Try to find a way to apologize to everyone.

Try to find motivation to do it all again.

Remember SixteenDates.

Ladies and gents, we’re back. Bigger and sluttier than ever.

 

 

>Don Draper Fail

>

Ok, we get it. You smile. You know people from the 90s. And you do, in fact, own a pair of jeans.

You aren’t Don Draper.

But really, did you have to resort to this outfit? And that hat?!

You look old. Like you should be in Mary Poppins. Or my high school graduation c.2002. With grandkids in tow.

Somebody get this man a stylist and a skinny tie so I can go on living my fantasy.

Thank you.

>I have standards.

>I’m not one to judge looks (sort of a lie), but when it comes to spelling and grammar, I have standards.

If you can’t tell the diff between it’s and its, there and their, your and you’re, you’re out. Also, in case you missed Ms. Strayhorn’s 1st grade class, when comparing two things it’s than, not then. Possessives use an apostrophe. Too is different than to.

Oh, and punctuation? Seriously, it’s quite simple. A sentence ends in a period. And if you’re rambling on, not only should you reconsider emailing me, you should know how to use my friends semi-colon and comma.

I don’t care if you’re Don Draper, you didn’t go to school, you’re just smart and charming by grace of god, etc. Unacceptable. I kid you not when I say this is by far more unattractive than snotting on me, pooping in my bathroom on the first date, or any other inappropriateness you can think of.

Is this too much to ask?!?

Now, I’m not a heartless bitch. I can overlook a sentence ending in a preposition (see above) or even a mishap on your neither/nors. I’ll cringe, but I can take one for the team.

But for the love of god, boys, as long as text and email remain viable forms of communication, learn how to write.

Please note: the above does not apply to foreigners. Especially tall, dark and handsome ones.

>Shout outs

>Remember when you usta call in to the radio station after 10pm and give your shout outs (which until a few years ago I actually thought were shot outs)?

Well, I wanna give a shout out to my girl KG as she’s drinking her way through the finish line.

I just received the following texts and thought I should share with the group. Because let’s face it, we’re at the edge of our seats waiting for real-time updates.

KG: Ok, on blind date. We just got drink 2. I think he’s not interested. Is it rude if I get an appetizer anyway?

One hour later…

KG: Ok, actually much better. He likes R&B more than men and he’s white. We’ve ordered 2 dishes and on 3rd drink. Aka I’m almost drunk

Hold up… did she just say he likes R&B more than men?

Men, take note.

Sounds like date numero quatro may be carrying KG through the finish line and onto the DTD leaderboard.

>Train encounters

>I was just stuck underground for 56 minutes. On a train. Without AC.

Let me repeat, smelly peeps, 20 blocks, 56 minutes. A one-legged turtle could carry me faster — with laptop in bag.

You might think I was ready to kill a kitten, because that’s how us New Yorkers roll.

But alas, handsome man to the rescue.

Killer suit, Don Draper hair, Kindle in hand. (Omgee what Don Draper could have done for the Kindle.)

Dude would read a few lines, look up and flash me the classic I’m annoyed too, but ain’t a thang we can do, honey look.

I would look down and flash the I can think of a few things that would pass the time look.

He would raise and eyebrow that said, My place?

I’d look away, Oh my. I didn’t mean that. I was going to suggest reading over your shoulder…

He would be all, Forgive me. Let me buy you a drink.

I’d be all, I don’t accept drinks from strangers.

He’d be all. Well don’t be a stranger. My place. 8pm.

Unfortunately, the only look dude really flashed was his wedding ring.

And a look that said none too subtly, Why are you staring at me and blogging at the same time?

Next time, I’m cabbing it.

>Update: Guy across the street

>Finish my sweaty sesh at hot yoga tonight, which just so happens to be across the street.

Which just so happens to have a nice little balcony where everyone convenes after class.

Which just so happens to look directly into my studio apartment.

Which just so happens to have the lights on.

Which just so happens to reveal that you can see absolutely everything inside my place.

Which just so happens to include my bed, my shower, and my couch.

You think I’d learn my lesson. Walk in, peel off sweaty clothes, now blogging on couch. Naked, but much cooler.

Good night yoga peeps. Good night creepy guy across the street. Good night tourists on the top floor of the Circle Line bus tour. Good night moon.

Oh, and for those of you who can see me, don’t judge me for eating this Cutie Tofutti in bed.

>Meat Man

>Food or sex?

A hot and steamy hairy-chested Italian or a gorgeous plate of melt-in-your-mouth prosciutto?

‘Tis is the question that plagues millions of women around the world.

Both can make your eyes roll back in your head, but let’s face it, the prosciutto is more likely to give me an orgasm. The problem: prosciutto can’t give me the post-coital cuddle.

Now imagine if you could have both.

Enter the best Italian deli/restaurant in all of Manhattan. Sure, I am biased. Their 24-month prosciutto is to-die-for. (So good it’s only sold at 7 places in the United States.) And the guy at the meat counter… HOTTEST. MAN. ALIVE.

For those of you who have recently become a Meat Man follower, you know what I’m talkin bout. For those of you who haven’t, let’s just say I’ve gained some prosciutto pounds getting my flirt on.

I’ve made all kinds of excuses to drop by and order a half-pound of this, a half-pound of that. I’ve had dinner parties, packaged meat as gifts (don’t act like you didn’t like it), even taken aSixteenDate there. All to see the Meat Man.

And this week, after weeks of flirting and snickering about his mouth-watering sausage, I got the digits.

Which means I am one step closer to what is sure to be the most orgasmic experience of my life. (Picture hot steamy sex with prosciutto dangling from… or don’t. Hate for you to lose your appetite.)

Anyway, it turns out Meat Man is a personal chef. Yeah, get jealous.

For the first time in my life, I’m thrilled that my kitchen is five feet from my bed.

Bring on the prosciutto.

P.S. This is likely to trump the time I lured the pizza guy into returning after his late-night shift to deliver a free pizza and some hot action. And no, that’s not a porn but the start of one of my favorite college romances. Loves ya Mario!

>Dear guy across the street

>It didn’t take you long to realize the new tenant across the way lives by herself. And often likes to be, shall we say, free.

Of clothing.

Yes, working, reading, cooking (ok, that’s a stretch…), eating dinner while watching Jon Hamm be the hottest man alive — always better sans clothes.

But seriously now. Are you stuck in that window? I mean, I see you. And you see that I see you.

You’re cute. I’ll give you that. But that is no excuse to let the creep out.

Now, if you want to come down and ask me on a date in person, I might be inclined to put some clothes on.

Wait a minute, am I seriously considering going on a date with Rando who watches me sleep at night?!!?!!!!

I think it’s time for another SixteenDates intervention. Look what you’ve done to this girl.

P.S. Kudos to anyone who can tell me the window climbing reference here…

>TMZ Breaking News: KT Celeb Date #6

>Ok, I know this doesn’t fit anywhere on the blizzog, but this is just too good not to share.

Totes just ran into Leighton Meester a block away from the office. These mid-day snack runs are really helping me on the celeb dates leaderboard. Probs not as good for my lady figure. Then again, I’m comparing myself to Blair Waldorf who is officially 97 pounds.

Anyway, we didn’t really have the quality date that JGL and I had yesterday. But she did look at me from the steps of Marc Jacobs and then stared at me from inside the cab at the corner as they almost ran over me. Her eyes said a little something like:

“Seriously, stop staring. Oh, and did you know I’m the one who sings that ‘Somebody to Love’ song? Also, Chuck Bass is totes gay. But don’t tell anyone I told you.”

I should note this isn’t the first run in with Leighton. There was that time they were filming GG outside my apt c. 2008 when I walked through a scene on my way home from work, went upstairs to change clothes, and came back down all dressed up pretending to be an extra.

The director looked me up and down and goes, “Weren’t you wearing something different five minutes ago?”

At least I wasn’t wearing this…

>Where NOT to find a date…

>You thought the speed dating prospects were shoddy, I’m sitting here in a sea of old molely people, pimpled teens, and botoxed moms.

Such is the clientele of a dermatologist’s office. On the Upper East Side.

And yes, I’m blogging from the waiting room for three reasons:

1. Any event that requires me to wear non-period underwear and shave my legs deserves a post.
2. Any time not at the office is spent thinking about potential dates.
3. A man is about to put on some binoculars and stare my body up and down.

Don’t lie, you’re totes jeal.

Ok, got to go get undressed for my mole check. Kind of excited.

>TMZ Breaking News: KT Celeb Date #5

>

Totes just ran into Joseph Gordon Levitt outside my office.

We got caught up in the traffic and he flashed me a look that said the following:

“I’d totally do you if you weren’t insanely busy at work and I wasn’t all with my friends and probs filming some movie. I’d hate to get all serious and fall in love when I have be back in LA to film our 30 Rock from the Sun reunion next month. But really, you’re adorable.”

That, my friends, was a five-minute conversation spoken only through adoring looks.

And that, SDers, counts as my Date #5.

JGL + KT = BF/GF 4eva

>Breakup #2

>Ok, looks like I’m climbing my way up the breakup leaderboard. (Breakup #1 will live in SD infamy.)

Seriously, if I knew dating meant having to break up with peeps, I would have been more cautious as I plowed my way through the finish line.

The short version: date #3 with Date #3:

*He referenced finding a home and the NYTimes Wedding section more than once.

*He refused to let go of my hand walking down the street and tried to kiss me 37 times.

*He wants to skip all the bullshit and know everything about me. Like, now.

*Why are you hesitant? Are you seeing other people? How did your last relationship end?

*Sent two emails the morning after, including one with “How was your day?”

Writing the breakup email now. Will take any advice I can get.

>I’m sorry, I really am

>Dear Date #3,

I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m guessing it’s best to be honest in these types of situations.

I don’t like you.

I mean, you’re insanely smart. And witty. And arguably attractive. Kind of. But I’m just not feeling it and I don’t know how else to tell you.

So, please stop kissing me on the subway. And the gchatting, seriously, chill the eff out. The Hamptons? A movie in CPark? More drinks? Road trips? No thank you.

Really, I’m not playing hard to get. I really don’t want to. This is why I’ve cancelled, three times.

So, I agreed to meet you tonight since I did, in fact, make you cancel the car and travel plans for the Hamptons. But seriously, this is dunzo.

Friends??

KT

>I need an intervention

>

And by intervention I mean sex.

After last night’s late night action involving a pile of cheese, gravy, and fries at Pommes Frites, I stumble out of bed, throw on a bra, and head to the yoga studio down the street.

Only this morning I opt out of steamy Bikram and instead decide to try a more chill studio on the next block. (The good thing about yoga in the am is you can work out and sleep at the same time.)

So I roll up behind two uber flexible 60-year-olds and am thinking, well, don’t have to worry about impressing a potential date #5 today.

Until I see Tyrone. Yes, the yoga instructor’s name in Tyrone (you betta caaaall Tyrone), and he is quite possibly the hottest man I’ve seen in two weeks. (In NYC, that’s saying a lot.)

And then he opens his mouth.

Let’s just say the next two hours were among the most pleasurable and distracting two hours of any workout I’ve ever had. That voice, that body, and the way he touched my ass and whispered in my ear to drop my shoulders on my baby cobra… you better believe my Oms were the loudest in the class.

So by the time the session comes to a close I’ve worked my mat up to be front and center on his standing forward bend. Everyone else is sitting with their eyes closed, meditating, and I’ve got my eyes focused on Tyrone. Those lips. And that ass.

He catches me looking at him and flashes a smile. Embarrassed, I close my eyes and picture us in a downward facing dog.

“Before you go, I want to share a story with you.”

Yesss. Tell me dirty stories, Tyrone. Tell me.

“My wife blah blah bobloblaw blah blah blaaaaah.”

I’m sorry, what did you just say?

“Our daughter blaaaaaaah”

Ohhhhkay, you wait until now to tell me this? I seriously just did a handstand for you, you asshole. (Although I must admit the thought of T-bone and his daughter is adorable.)

We were supposed to get milkshakes in the park, get married after five amazing months, and start making babies. I can’t believe you did this to me.

And then I realize I’m crazy. I am certifiably crazy. I am exhibiting rare symptoms that are none too familiar for yours truly. Symptoms that can only mean one thing:

I, ladies and gentleman, need to get laid.

While I may have won the race to the top on the leaderboard, I’m 0-4 on the dirty. And as evidenced here, inching closer and closer to full blown desperation.

P.S. Oh, and for those of you keeping tabs, I canceled date #3 with Date #3 to the Hamptons. More to come on this…

P.P.S. A pigeon just took a shit on my air conditioner. Karma is for realz.

>Outing CFH

>Ok, KP and I had a mini-intervention with CFH last night. And by mini-intervention I mean lots of drinks.

And with lots of drinks come some pretty hilarious stories. CFH, I suggest you start posting. Like, now.

Let’s just say this blog has something to do with why CFH is NOT working her way up the leaderboard.