October in Newport has come and gone. Tourists have (mostly) left, and we now have our town back to ourselves. What could possibly go wrong? (insert evil laughter here).

A few bits and pieces of advice from October in Newport:
1. Still hard to find parking on the weekends
2. Alllllll the harvest fairs/farmers’ markets/fall beers. YES. #basicaf #askmeificare #atleastididn’tmentionpumpkincoffee
3. Sweater Weather/Beach Weather. It can change at any moment
4. No matter whether you think otherwise or not, texting and walking home from the bar is NEVER a good idea. Because then you fall and injure yourself on Spring Street and quickly jump up and look around and make sure no one saw you….
5. Halloween was interesting. I couldn’t move at Fastnet without running into someone hilarious, someone I wanted to outright murder for being a terrible person, or someone who scared the living daylights out of me.
6. There are still some good people out there. My car keys went missing on Halloween, and I had to leave the car on Broadway of all places, overnight and alone. To say I woke up filled with anxious dread Nov. 1 is an understatement.  When I got to the car, however, some good person had found the keys and left them on my front seat. Thank you good sir or madam, whoever you are. I hope good Karma finds you soon!

Annnnd onto November!
The Elks Lodge is hosting a 50-75% off Island Sale this weekend.
I will be there because, despite the fact that I have a good job and health insurance, I can barely afford to eat. Thank you grad school loans. You’re killing me.

We here in the Northeast are also currently experiencing a lovely El Niño. 65 degrees? I’ll take it!
Since I now leave my house and return from work when it’s dark out, I’ll take all the warm humid air I can get. PS someone get me a sun lamp ASAP. I’m suffering from the ill effects of no Vitamin D. Is it summer yet? When can I go on vacation to warmer climes/stay there forever and not come back until late May?

One last thing. Christmas decorations. Why are you up already? Halloween just ended, Thanksgiving hasn’t even hit yet, it’s 65 degrees out, and I can’t take it. STOP PREMATURE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS. Christmas decorating should happen the first weekend of December, and end immediately after New Years. Let’s be real here people. No one wants to see your giant blow-up creepy Christmas Santas and Snowmen in the beginning of November. NO ONE. Just Stop.

Sincerely,
The Grinch Antisocialite.

So I’ve been on a few Tinder dates….

The first two were with a baseball coach who we will appropriately nickname “Coach”
Coach is a Newporter. Born and bred. Dislikes other people from other towns on the Island. Chip on his shoulder. Went to Rogers.

Coach refuses to go to O’Bs (ok- valid) because it is a “highschool reunion” every time he goes there.

Coach decided (24 hours into texting me) he was going to start being extremely sexual, and also decided that he wasn’t going to “touch me until I said it was ok.” Coach also told me his mind was a “steel trap” for all of the BOGO deals in Newport. Since I was brought up in a slightly WASPy household, all of the sexual texting kind of overwhelmed me, and made me decidedly uneasy while hanging out with him, because he wasn’t actually talking about any of the things he texted about. Awwwwkward.

Bye Coach. Don’t make ME feel weird because you push your awkwardness onto other people. Coach also had really small hands relative to his body. Onto the next.

The next one was with a man who posted pictures of himself when he was in college, and was actually 30 pounds heavier in real life (which isn’t in and of itself a turn-off), but his actions were.
Please don’t meet me for lunch and spit your food anywhere near me. Bye college wannabe. You were much cuter back then. Sorry.

I was also texted by a golf-pro wannabe who goes running all the time on Bellevue. Guess who I happened to run into when I was out running (ok fine- mostly walking- let’s be real)? He took one look at me, and ran the other way. We made eye contact. He knew who I was. I never heard from him again. Sorry I look like I’m dying/slightly asthmatic every time I run more than .25 miles?! At least I’m out there trying!

And here’s where the Antisocialite advice starts to kick in. By this time, you’ve been on some Tinder dates. You’ve gotten out there. Newport is a SMALL TOWN. Do yourself a favor, and research before-hand which bars these Tinder dates haunt all the time, and then AVOID THEM AT ALL COSTS when you’re on a Tinder date with someone else. Some examples can include:
“So… where do you go on the weekends?” #flirtykissface  “Which bars do you like to go to?”
(really I’m compiling all of this information in a dossier for use later when I decide I don’t like you).

….Or you can just pray to the karma gods when on said Tinder date with someone else that you don’t run into someone you know (or a prior Tinder date that you don’t want to see).

By some twist of fate/good luck, I’ve yet to run into anyone I know whilst on a Tinder date, and I have not run into college-wannabe OR coach OR golf-pro wannabe runner. Thank you, karma gods.

Now get out there and good luck. Remember: dossier that info. It will come in use later.

No words necessary.

And… Good talk.

Shoutout to the “boat captain” who:

1. Told me how unique I look, followed promptly by a list of people I look exactly like.
2. Said it was nice how much fun my friends and I were having, followed by his friend saying “Keep it down, bitches… LOL I’m just kidding.”
3. Agreed to sell me his yacht for whatever was in my checking account. So, guess I’m buying a yacht for $1200, give or take a few dollars and cents (sense?)
4. Shook my hand, then asked if he could again, then kissed
5. my
6. hand.
7. Bowed out (literally) very disgracefully.

In that order, in the span of about ten minutes.

So sometimes my phone is silent for days at a time, hence the writing hiatus. Then, out of nowhere, it’s like all the minions get in touch with each other, agreeing to ruin my day, hence the lengthy post tonight.

Marriott Man: *Posts a picture on Facebook with a woman.*
Me: *Copy and paste said picture into message.* Umm??
Marriott Man: ??
Me: You’re married.
Marriott Man: What’s it to you?

………

While I am no social media expert, this is just sociopathic beyond anything I’ve ever seen. (And, trust me when I tell you, I’ve had my VERY FAIR share of sociopaths.) The sad part is, he obviously gets away with it, and women are obviously okay with him being a complete fucking slime ball. Sure, he has money, and a good job, and the looks. So why isn’t that enough? My favorite part about the whole situation is this: He told me he is modest. (From a gold Maserati convertible with the top down and a vanity license plate–from New Jersey.)

Then there are the guys who stalk you via social media, then preface whatever they say with “I’m not creeping but…..are you in New York?” Yes, yes I am. Which is why I posted a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge and tagged myself in New York, NY.

Him: Are you in NY?!
Me: *Silence.*
Him: Just saw your fb.
Me: *Silence.*
Him: Not stalking promise.
Me: *Silence.*

Three days later, he asked if he could come visit. Sometimes I don’t know what to do. I can’t be mean; it’s not in my nature (as I have a blog talking shit behind guys’ backs). But I understand it this way: Guys can talk to any girl in a room/bar/party, and he chose to strike up a conversation with me. At the very least, I can be cordial. But when it’s aggressive, I lose my shit. You have been warned. It’s not pretty.

Because I refuse to partake in online dating. But if I didn’t at least flirt online, my fate as a six-cat cat lady would be sealed, instead of just extremely likely.

I think because guys (hardly men) are hiding behind a screen, their balls grow exponentially larger and they think they can say whatever they want.

Ahem:

Oh. Well since you were so coy and romantic about it…

I’ll take the six cats.

People often ask why I respond to ridiculous text messages/people. It’s simple: Being ignored sucks. That being said, it’s also extremely entertaining.

The names are pretty straightforward. Marriott Man is the super sweet guy who told me to “start shaving those legs.” Hates Me….hates me. I ignore and do not answer calls from those, and wino is…a wino.

I considered changing my number, then decided to start a blog instead.

The STRUGGLE of working a 9-5 forty-five minutes away from the island, when MOST ALL of your friends work in the hospitality industry.

When you get text messages on a Monday that read something like this:

Them: “How’s work?”

Me: *($#@&(!

Them: “That’s good I’m just chillin’ at Rejects right now”
(Sends me pic of them slyly drinking a beer and hiding from a security guard)

LITERALLY THE WORST THING EVER.

WHY YOU DO THIS TO ME?

CAN’T YOU SEE I’M AT WORK TRYING TO FORGET ABOUT LYING ON A BEACH AND DRINKING DRINKS BARELY DISGUISED AS NON-ALCOHOLIC DRINKS? (JUST YOU WAIT TILL WINTER COMES- THEN IMA GO ON A VACATION AND ALLLLLL THE PICS WILL BE SENT FROM MY PHONE) *MUAHAHAHAHA. HA. HA*

J/k I’m really just crying at my desk and trolling Instagram pretending to do work right now.
Or blogging about pretending to do work. Same thing really.

My favorite stories are usually about the men who don’t know they are despised, and worse, think they are amazing (and that the World of Women agrees). They think all women want to sleep with them and all men want to be them. In reality, everyone is actually avoiding them. Case in point:

And I’m sitting here, like, “No really, thanks for the heads up. Now I know to disappear for the entire week.”

The pick up lines endured on any given night in Newport could be a blog in itself. But, universe, this one might be my favorite.

I’ll set the stage.

I’m sitting at the bar. Alone. (By choice, thank you.) A random guy asks if he can sit next to me. Standard… “Sure,” I say.

We chat about nothing. I don’t look at him. Then the unthinkable happens.

He puts his hand on my leg–my upper thigh–and squeezes.

It took every. single. ounce. of energy to not knock him out as quickly as he thought it acceptable to touch me. And then he says this: “Sorry there, love, I just wanted to see if you had any texture there.” While I don’t even know what this means, I know I’m extremely offended (and that takes A LOT).

I ordered a shot of whiskey, took it before the bartender could put it down, and told him to get his fucking hands off me before I used my textured legs to kick his fucking ass.