So I Gave My Number to the Guy at Papaya Dog…

Papaya Dog New York
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Short post today on what happened to me last night.

J-Law

After spending three hours pretending I eat like cute girl…

So, after a lovely Tuesday night Hinge date at The Standard Grill (tres trendy), I was naturally hungrier than a basic bitch in a brunch line. Bobby (because that’s what I call all the men in my life) had treated me to about 424 glasses of Casamigos tequila on the rocks, which, side note, gets five stars.

Not that my alcohol standards are high. I’m judging this against Fireball and the year-old vat of Absolut in my freezer.

Anyway, the cab drops me off at my apartment, and an idea pops into my head: Papaya Dog. Yes. Surely a corn dog will be a sophisticated end to an evening that involved Bond No. 9 perfume and a $40 cheese plate.

The second I walk in I lock eyes with Jesus, who of course recognizes me because I’m a regular customer between the hours of 1 and 4am.

We exchange the usual pleasantries and he compliments my appearance, which of course is a much-needed self-esteem booster when you’re about shove of 1,400 calories of fried chemicals down your throat.

Cher

I will say: talking to Jesus is a lot cheaper than therapy.

“You are so beautiful, what is your number?” he asked, shoving a napkin and a pen towards me.

Without even hesitating, I wrote it down. Then I took my corn dog and went home, where I ate my treat in silence while watching the end of Titanic.

LOLOLOL this movie NEVER GETS OLD.

LOLOLOL this movie NEVER GETS OLD.

Don’t feel sorry for me. It was one of the most pleasant hours I’ve had all week.

Well, this morning I got a call. From a number I didn’t recognize. I thought it was someone who had heard about how funny I am and wanted to offer me a Bravo reality show.

Me picking up the phone, thinking it's Andy Cohen.

Me picking up the phone, thinking it’s Andy Cohen.

“Hello?” I said.

Silence. Heavy breathing.

“Hello?” I said again.

“When we go out on date?”

“Wait…who is this?”

“Jesus. Papaya Dog. When you come over?”

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“Oh, um…I’m actually at work right now…” (Bravo reality show dreams crushed. Awful reality sets in. My life is a joke.)

“When you get off work?”

“Six.” (Arbitrary number that just popped into my head.)

“I call you at six. Don’t come in hot dog store. Today is day off.”

“Okay, I won’t,” I said. Did Jesus think I ate Papaya Dog for every meal, every day?

We clicked off. I stared at the phone in shock.

New low.

I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened, but it’s not. About two months ago I gave my number to the Russian oligarch who works at the bodega down the street. I seriously have issues saying “no” to people. I feel so bad. So I gave it to him, and he called me. And now I can never go in that store again.

At this rate there will literally be ZERO businesses I can go to in the West Village.

While relaying this story to my friend Brooke this morning, she pointed out a fact I had not thought of.

“Molly…a guy who picks up the phone and calls you?!?!?! EPIC!!!!”

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GOOD POINT, BROOKE. The most polite men in my life this year have been Mr. Bodega Man and Jesus the Papaya King.

MEN OF NEW YORK, TAKE NOTE.

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Molly Fedick is a freelance writer and founder of The Eighty8. She writes a dating and relationships column and has been featured in the Huffington Post, Elite Daily, Glamour, NBC.com, the official White House blog, CollegeHumor.com and CosmoGirl!, among others. Molly is a graduate of Boston University and Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism, and in her spare time enjoys adding more black and white to her already entirely black and white wardrobe.