Whew. Let’s all relax, New Year’s Eve is over. Did you have a good time? Are you a new person now? Hopefully so, because who wants to know that old shlub? Just kidding, never change! Personally, I’ve resolved to… do more fun New York City events!

FRI 1: Polar Bear Plunge

Coney Island Boardwalk, 11:00 AM, Free with a suggested $20 donation plus your sanity

If you’re the kind of person who likes to ring in the new year with a WAAAAHHH COOOLD AAAGHHH, this event is for you. Let’s be real, though, it’s just as fun to hold hands with a special someone while toasty and dry and watch the crazies do their crazy thing.

Bring a bathing suit just in case you change your mind!

FRI 1: Broken Resolutions and Cartoons

The Bad Old Days, 1684 Woodbine St, 2:00 PM- 8:00 PM, Whatever You Spend on Cereal 

Aah… something more my speed. The day after New Year’s Eve is always a rough one. Whether you partied hard and the sound of your roommate coughing is a pounding nightmare or you had a blast responsibly and are staring at a list of resolutions you’re never going to carry out, this is a day that requires gentle affection, love, and tenderness.

The Bad Old Days has you covered.

This cozy, adorable Ridgewood bar invites you to ring in the New Year with some classic cartoons, a Bloody Mary, and an open cereal bar. Don’t want to get dressed? No problem, pajamas are encouraged and there will even be a prize for best bed head/PJ combo.

SAT 2: PhanArt Presents: Skyscraper is Grand

The Gold Room at The Hotel Pennsylvania, 401 7th Ave, 12:00 PM-7:00 PM, Free

Three words: Phish. Art. Fair.

If you’re around the Madison Square Garden area this Saturday, I have one glorious command to you: go. to. this. show. Can you think of any band besides Phish that has inspired such a storied following and expansive universe? Much like the traveling Phish fans, this art show has popped up all over, in places like Philadelphia, Atlantic City, Chicago, Las Vegas and Miami, to name a few.

Do yourself a favor and check it out! If you’re lost, follow the tie-dyed bears.

SAT 2: Young Paris @ Brooklyn Museum

Brooklyn Museum, 200 Eastern Pkw, 9:00 PM, Free

Alright, you’re all rested up from New Year’s Eve and ready to party… but maybe not make too late a night of it. Young Paris is a NY-born Congolese-American whose music will get you through an hour-long workout session, with socially conscious lyrics that sound amazing over hard-hitting afro beats. I recommend giving his popular video Kake a watch before the show, though my personal favorite is The Haus. 

SUN 3: Oracle of Dreams: Monthly Tarot and Astrology Salon 

Catland Books, 987 Flushing Ave, 1:00 PM – 9:00 PM, $10 

First of all, adorable poster. Second of all, doesn’t this sound like a blast?! Whether or not you actually take things like tarot readings and astrology seriously, it’s always a ton fun seeing what the cards turn up, and the beginning of the year is the perfect time to see what might just be in store for you and a friend or date.

When you’re finished, take a look at the quirky, fun items Catland has on offer. In the market for a Dinonysian wand? Catland’s got you covered. Want to replace your damaged Raider-Waite tarot deck? Catland’s prepped and ready. Looking for some Espous Island Rune Stones? Sorry, Catland’s sold out… but they’ve got plenty of other stuff, so check it out!

SUN 3: The Jewish Single and Mingle and Mingle Biggest New Year’s Event

Cave Restaurant Lounge, 2320 McDonald Ave, 8:00 PM- 2:00 AM, Free

Give it up for my old neighborhood, Gravesend! This area is so close to Coney Island it could hit it with a rock but there isn’t always a ton going on, so it’s awesome to see fun events like this one pop up. There’s gonna be snacks, dancing, a DJ, and plenty of hookah, so bring some friends and see if you can meet some nice folks.

Before you go, get a tuna sandwich at Think Sweet. You’ll thank me later. Oh, Think Sweet… I miss you so.

MON JAN 4: Clue Watch And Play! 

Videology Bar & Cinema, 308 Bedford Ave, 7:00 PM, $5

Hooray! If Clue isn’t one of your all-time favorite comedies, I don’t know if we can be friends anymore. Every table will be provided with the board game Clue so be sure to come early. Videology has plenty of food and beer on tap, so come hungry and get ready to identify some murderers.

Who knows, maybe you’ll make some new friends! Be careful, though… those new friends might have a candlestick in their back pocket!

If you don’t mind a spoiler, I’ll hip you to my absolute favorite moment in the movie.

TUES JAN 5: Sex Cells

The Way Station, 683 Washington Ave, Brooklyn, 7:00-9:00 PM, Free

Calling all nerds! Oh wait- I’m calling myself! Have you ever wanted to have a scientific discussion about unicellular reproduction while drinking alcohol in the coolest-looking bar featuring a TARDIS this side of the Hudson? Wait no more! Join Dr. Julia Zichello, PhD for a discussion of mitosis and more and stick around for cocktail specials afterwards.

The Way Station is a venue with a ton of different interesting events, so be sure to come back often! They describe themselves as “music venue and nerdvana,” which sounds like a beautiful boozy dream.

WED JAN 6: Graffiti

House of Art Gallery, 408 Marcus Garvey Blvd, 2:00 PM – 7:00 PM, Free

Do yourself a favor and spend a few minutes clicking through some of urban artist Frank Morrison’s paintings. I’ll wait.

Okay, now you understand why you have to check out this amazing artist’s gorgeous paintings- for free. Frank Morrison isn’t just a painter. He’s also a break dancer, and, according to itsablackthang.com, was part of Sugar Hill Gang’s dance entourage.

It’s a small gallery, so you’ll have plenty of time to grab some hot chicken at Peaches HotHouse. Yeeeeess.

THURS 7: Saw Her Stand Up There

Q.E.D., 27-16 23rd Ave, Astoria, 7:30 PM, $5

This show has been blowing up, so go see it while you can still get seats. Host Andrea Ilene Shapiro is a hilarious powerhouse of the woman that you’ll catch glimpses of if you watch Orange is the new Black, which every sane human does. The lineup always features seasoned stand up veterans but newbies are welcome to try their hand for the cost of something from the bar, so why not give it a shot?

While you’re there, take a look at Q.E.D.’s list of events and classes. They’ve got classes, music, arts and crafts… the venue bills themselves as “an after-school space for grownups,” and you may just decide to subtly sneak in a sleeping bag and move in.

No matter how excellent the match, no matter how close the percentage points, no matter how cute that picture of him with a baby Chow Chow was, sometimes the dates are just going to suck.

If I had to make a graph of my online dates, it would look something like this.

Please forgive the pixelated quality of this. I made it on a site for children.

Most dates are just a way to spend an evening that isn’t me watching Unbreakable Kimmy Shmidt again on Netflix while my rommate and I drink beer shandies. My date and I drink whatever it is we’re drinking, we have casual chats, we’re not interested in each other. Many dates are fun. We share mutual interests, the guy’s cute, maybe there’s some chemistry. Once in a blue moon I get stood up: Paul, an improviser I share 33 mutual friends with, stopped texting me the day of our date only to tweet/write a Facebook post about how he was out with a (cuter? younger? less ginger-y?) different woman that same night.

WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNEEERRRR!!!

what comes up when you search for “douchebag.”

I may still be holding a grudge there.

Anyway, it’s that 9% that really sticks in my mind. During the moment of those terrible dates, I’m stuck. Let’s share some details of a recent date I went on, in scenic Koreatown. I’m sitting there with a horrible man, wondering why exactly he chose to wear toe shoes and mesh shorts to an upscale tofu place, cocking my head with confusion as he claims his father dragged his mother to a cabin in the woods where she had her own trailer and made terrible kimchi which is why he never learned to speak Korean. During the moment I’m uncomfortable because he doesn’t actually like tofu so why did he suggest the place, embarrassed because his voice is an entire decibel field louder than the ambient noise of the restaurant, baffled as he explains to me that he legally changed his name to Toth because he went by Other Tim in taekwondo class and Toth was “a bit of a mashup of that.”

Then the moment is over and I’m in improv class or with my ESL students, and my friends and I are laughing hysterically. Did the waitress really take his egg and fish away because he ordered from the children’s menu?! Yes, she did, and her look of pure disgust made me nearly choke on my kimchi jjigae.

the ladies who work here are sassy as hell

These horrible dates can be gems. The best algorithms and the smartest messages and the best pictures with the best dogs can’t protect us from the reality that humans are strange, mixed-up beings who wear toe shoes and bathing suit bottoms to first dates. This is something I really treasure. We’re no longer a species doomed to meet our lovers at bars or singles clubs, but there is still such an element of chance to walking into a room with someone you only know through 0’s and 1’s.

Far from it being discouraging, these dreadful dates can make the search for love infinitely more interesting. I’d rather have three abominable dates in a row than a month of “eh could woulda maybe if that mustache wasn’t so scraggly” dates. Horrible dates give promise that equal and opposite wonderful dates are to come. Horrible dates are sitcom moments that we can’t escape and force us to be alive and face our fellow weirdo.

Toth, you are a glorious human being. Never change.

Paul, you are a garbage dump of a human. I hope your twitter gets hacked.

Several years ago, I went on a date with a girl who jumped in front of a Mack Truck and asked me to save her. I didn’t. About thirty seconds into her suicide attempt, she realized I wasn’t coming to her rescue (I think I was checking my mail), and threw herself to the curb. It takes a special kind of person for me not to save from oncoming death, and well. She was it. Forty minutes into the date, she told me she had “waking dreams” where she “murdered her mother.” She also mentioned that she made more in her last corporate bonus than I made in the last year (true) and showed up to the date in white New Balance Sneakers (is that what you do with a bonus?) She was immature and arrogant. And besides, it all felt too soon. I like to save my suicide threats until at least a year into the relationship, when it feels both fun and real.

The date, like many other online dates, started off normally enough. We decided to meet for some day drinking at a bar and then see where things headed from there. When she showed up, I noticed that she was already tipsy (and in white sneakers) but I thought nothing of it. We all need a few drinks now and again to remind us we’re not dead on the inside. In fact, when we sat down, I thought she might actually be cute, potentially date-able. I was excited! Then she started to talk.

“I don’t believe in violence against women, but one time I punched my ex-girlfriend in the mouth, because she deserved it.”

“Last night I got so drunk I woke up in bathroom at Chili’s and I had no idea where I was.”

“I own a murphy bed.”

It wasn’t clear to me what bothered me the most (the domestic violence oooor the retractable couch?) but I knew I had to get out of there. Unfortunately, she was one of those conversationalists who prioritize their talking over their listening skills, so I remained seated. Advice to any future  daters: if you find yourself talking a lot on a first date, it’s not because your partner is shy or you’re particularly interesting. It’s because you have no known interpersonal skills and don’t deserve another person in your life.

Thankfully, a few hours later she decided she had to go home because she was feeling tired. I knew what that meant (ralph! Ralph all over the bed! All over the house!) and I appreciated the courtesy. We walked outside and hugged for a second, before she decided it was a good idea to leap from my arms and rush into oncoming traffic.

“Hey Heather,” she said, cars whizzing around her, “If you’re such a social worker, why don’t you come and save me?”

I thought about it. She seemed like a nice girl who probably deserved a future. But the the only person who could save her at this point was herself. Traffic was moving fast. A Mack Truck sped up and turned.  Everyone honked. She threw herself to the curb. Everything fell silent. She was okay. I was okay. Life would move on. In an hour, I’d be on another date.

Some people like to take space between their relationships, but I’ve always preferred to impale myself head-on. After someone’s dumped me, I try to take at least seven days and dedicate myself to such self-improvement exercises as: “cyberstalking,” “maxing out my debit card,” and “going on yahoo message boards to see if my ex has borderline personality disorder.” The answer is always yes, but I’m never satisfied. Never fulfilled. A week in, I log onto my old dating website, put up my best photo-shopped selfies, and immediately go on a date with whatever street lunatic disguised as a human messages me.

Several years ago, that was Jess, a self-identified “actress from New York” who liked “introspection” and “cheese fries.” There were a couple of red flags when it came to Jess, namely that she was HELLO AN ACTRESS FROM NEW YORK, but she did like complex carbohydrates. As someone with an active interest in both Lunchables and self-destruction, well. It was love at self-description.

Jess asked me to meet her outside her rehearsal space, then together we’d go to a bar to grab fries and a beer. It was unclear to me why I had to meet her outside her theater and not just at the bar, but I figured she was just trying to impress me. “How cute,” I thought, though in later years I would use adjectives like: “narcissistic,” “immature,” and “outright delusional.” I was anxious yet persistent, so I showed up fifteen minutes early to the date, covered in deodorant and body lotion, ready for wherever the night might take me. Marriage?

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jess showed up twenty minutes late to the date, claiming that her director had kept her late to help her work on her “breathing.” It seemed like kind of a lame excuse to me (sorry, yoga folks, but breathing – not a skill), but she did seem apologetic, and she did have boobs. I figured she might be nervous, so I asked her a lot of questions. Where was she from? What made her want to become an actress? Did she have any shows coming up?

Jess was more than happy to answer, both during the walk over to the bar, at the bar, and during the remainder of our four-hour date. In fact, Jess seemed to have a very original interpretation of the dating process! In her world, one person (myself) asked all the questions and the other person (herself) got to answer them. What a treat! A magical equation! Over the course of the night, not only did I get to hear about Jess’ home life (she came from a boring middle-class suburb – poor baby!), I became privy to the darkest recesses of New York theater – did I know that Hillary Swank once stole a part destined to be hers? (I didn’t!) That she had once written a series of one-act plays about her vagina? (Oh wow!) That at the end of every month she had to go home and eat CAN after CAN of cat food because her food stamps had run out? (That was weird)

Halfway through the date, I realized that Jess was not only uninterested in my deodorant, she was uninterested in me. It wasn’t, I’d like to think, because of any inherent flaw on my part. In Jess’ world, and in the world of so many people I’ve dated, I wasn’t quite real. I was a sounding board for their fantasies about identity, a projection screen for their delusions about themselves. I couldn’t be a date because I wasn’t quite a person. And to be fair, most of the time, they were just boobs.

To her credit, Jess did eventually realize she had monopolized the conversation, and made a last-minute attempt to engage me. “Wow, I feel like I’ve been talking a lot,” she said, thirty minutes into her discussion of her hypoglycemia (Interestingly, Jess’ small intestine didn’t stop her from EATING ALL OF MY FRIES ASSHOLE) “Sorry,” she said, genuinely searching for a question, “Do YOU have any digestive problems?”

That was it. 3 beers, 3,000 fries, and 200 minutes in – that was the sole question Jess had asked of me in the entire duration of our date. Beer I would pay for, time I could never get back, and fries that would fly out of my asshole like fountain streams. But it wasn’t all a waste. For as much I had been dumped, I now learned that there were people like Jess who – hurrah hurrah! – were way more dumpable.

“I do have digestive problems,” I told her, “which is why I need to take these fries . . . to go.”

A sloppy exit, but an exit nonetheless. Jess packed up all of her things and I grabbed all the to-go containers. She might have been eating cat food, but I was the one to hear about it. I deserved this. Outside, theater-goers waited by side entrance doors, hoping for photographs, while anxious moms flagged down nearby taxi cabs. All of us cold and annoyed but confident we’d make contact, soon.