Saturday, December 05, 2009

y i h8 txtng (the official end of PtCtA)

12/5, 12:40am:

“Hey what are you up to?”
“In bed”
“Aww I am just getting out of the bar. You sound like you could use some company hah”
“I have to be up at 4am”
“Even a better reason to pull the old school all niter. Sorry for the drunken text then”

I really do not enjoy receiving drunk texts after midnight from people I barely know. I really do not enjoy the implication that I would be someone who would want to be texted for a late night romp by someone who I have yet to hug with both arms who (in case anyone forgot) wrecked my bike last time I saw him. I think I am pretty straight forward. If I want to see you in little to no clothing, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, after these sorts of texts, I’ll just categorize you in the creeper file and cross you off the list of people I take phone calls from.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Date 34.2: Tweed Crash

To be completely fair before I get started, I can be fairly bitchy.

After dinner, I really liked the Protestant-turned-Catholic-turned-Agnostic. However, the following morning he sent me a text message that started with “Heya Senorita.” This might have been endearing if I had not been at home sick again. I tell him this and he replies with “Aww did I make you sick again? =(“ Make me sick again? I don’t think I follow… I was sick on Wednesday and I am still sick today. Then at 9pm a question about indie music and cellos (which I do love both, but I’m at home sick and could use some non texting time). Then at 12:30am “What are you up to?” Probably still being sick, back off. And again at 1:12am “What a great concert. Youre asleep I assume?” No, I thought it would be fun to take my projectile vomit out on the town… of course I’m asleep. Then Saturday more texting and asking if I’m going out (again because he doesn’t understand sick). And Sunday more texting. Monday more texting. Tuesday more texting. Wednesday more texting. Thursday more texting. Friday more texting… and he’s decided to ride a tricycle at the tweed ride. Saturday more texting… then a call. I tell him I am at the vet and I will need to talk to him later. He hangs up and texts some more. Then he asks to borrow my bike. I tell him that’s fine and I’ll just bring it with me on Sunday. He wants to be helpful “I’ll come pick it up.” No, that wouldn’t make any sense since it will fit in my car and you are texting too much and I don’t want you to know where I live.

So here we are… Sunday. I call him, he doesn’t answer. He texts almost immediately. Because I didn’t text him back last night to tell him (again) that I would bring the bike, he has made other plans but is canceling them and heading toward Dallas. My downstairs bathroom floods, the dog is sick, I snap at my undeserving brother because he’s the only person around and then I head toward Dallas. PtCtA is texting. I tell him where we are unloading the bikes. He can’t find us. I see him standing less than 100 yards away. I don’t have the energy to tell him he’s looking right at us.

He stands idly by as my brother airs up the tires, puts wheels back on the bikes, etc. He doesn’t speak… doesn’t help… just watches.

We get ready just in time and join the group as they ride by us. PtCtA is complaining about the bike. I’m sure the issue stems from the bike being taken apart so it and two other bikes would fit in my car. I ignore the complaints and continue to pedal. Endorphins start to course through my body and my mood is already improving. I hear a crash behind me. I glance around. Brother… check. Athena (in a good way)… check. PtCtA… hmmm... MIA.

So PtCtA is MIA and my phone starts vibrating. You’ll never guess… it’s a text. He has wrecked the cruiser and says he will meet us at the car. So, I cannot finish the Tweed Ride with the group, I must cut the lop short and head back to my car where PtCtA is nowhere to be found. He is lost. Lost because we parked on Ross and he wrecked on Ross and something about that was confusing. So my brother walks to the corner and waves him in like airport employee in neon orange protection and a vest. Then as we work on the cruiser and load up the car, PtCtA stands idly by. He doesn’t speak… doesn’t help… just watches.

I ask if he wants to meet us at the bar. My brother, Athena (in a good way), and I head back out on our bikes to catch up with the group. When we arrive at Eno’s in Oak Cliff PtCtA is standing alone waiting. Then he sits beside me while I eat a cheese plate (because I love cheese) and doesn’t talk. Then we part ways. At this point I’ve decided I would rather ride Messenger Bag... I mean ride with Messenger Bag… he’s so cute.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Date 34: Baja Grill with the Protestant-turned-Catholic-turned-Agnostic (PtCtA for short)

I wasn't a huge fan of the restaurant, but I was very pleased with the company. PtCtA was funny, a great conversationalist (none of those awkward pauses that are so common with men), and cute. There were some thing that caught me off guard though... there are reasons all his pictures are either really old or with hats... bald... very very very bald. And he gave himself a shot at the table. Addict? Not likely. Diabetic? Probably. Will I go out with him again? Definitely.

Thursday, November 05, 2009

Art. Art? And Dallas Society

When I worked in sports I had the benefit of free tickets to different sporting events. The Greek Goddess has better perks. She enjoys events graced by women in shoes that cost more than my house payment each month… Dallasites. Not the new era of Dallasites where anyone willing to spend $15 on a mixed drink and wear pastels gets to call themselves part of the club, but old school Dallasites- these people have money.

Art + Advocacy is a charity event held in a swank office space (where the Greek Goddess works when she is not in the Northlands under the watchful eyes of JCP) near Deep Ellum. There was great food, wine, champagne, music, an auction, fabulous shoes, trashy (yet expensive) clothes, and more people watching than you can shake a stick at.

The Greek Goddess helped me get dressed (thankfully), loaned me some tights (which I need to return, and taught me how to put on lipstick (I know, I’m almost 30 and had no idea) before we headed to the event. She has regaled me with tales of a severely intoxicated woman with a pension for petit fours from the year before so I was pumped.

We made our way through the room, looking at the various pieces up for auction, grabbed a few drinks and settled in to stare. The Greek Goddess left me alone for what was likely only a few minutes, but long enough for me to meet one of the “artists”.

++++Brief aside++++
This looks far better in photo than the “artist” could have wished for it to look in person... Hence “Artist”

This was fabulous both in person and in photo... hence artist without snarky quotes.

Earlier in the evening the Greek Goddess had pointed out a particularly disappointing Pollock knockoff, so imagine my delight to find that I was speaking with that very “artist”. She slurred that she liked my dress. She asked if I was an artist since my outfit was “too creative” to just be an outfit. I told her I was not an “artist” though I refrained from pointing out that I was an artist without snarky quotes, just not one displaying anything there. She loudly asked if my purple and black Ironman Timex was a statement of some kind and without giving me time to respond decreed that she just
loved it.

You see these sorts of drunk people on television, but rarely in real life. Head swaying from side to side, talking steps like her shoes are made of lead, laughing at everything, taking pictures with everyone. It was classic.

When the Greek Goddess returned I am certain (though she would never admit it, even to herself) that she was terribly jealous of my new friend. Who doesn't want to be friends with the woman who never painted before last year but her hairdressers brother was part of the planning committee and asked her to donate a piece and he would make sure it got it and since it sold they asked her to donate another piece this year? Well. Hmm. If we had known it was that easy.

So to wrap up a very long and exciting evening (which ended with the Greek Goddess and I looking like we might be on a late night lesbian date in Lakewood- Hell yes, my date was kick ass), we are so finding a way to get out artwork into next year's event even if it means I have to leave my orgasmic, head-massaging, ear rubbing, sexy hairdresser from the same one this lady uses (which based on the hairdresser's haircut I've seen, the hairdresser is an "artist" too).

Sunday, November 01, 2009

Date 27.2: Wedding Date

At the last minute before the wedding of the decade, I started feeling that total discomfort that comes with going to a wedding without a date so I emailed Bus Trip fishing for information... was he going, who was he going with, did he want to ride together?

I swung by his place to pick him up. I stood in the dining area putting on fishnets while he stood near by working with his cuff links. It was a very standard scene... for people who live together. For us though, it's a little strange.

The wedding was beautiful the reception was great, but...

Since we did not RSVP as a pair we were not seated together. This gave me time to catch up with other people though and to have a moment that rivals the one with Bus Trip when we had the eHarmony conversation. I was at a table with another of my eHarmony matches. I swear the number of people eHarmony wanted me to love that I already knew in real life and didn't have a spark with is comparable to the national debt.

I didn't see much of Bus Trip after that. I danced with messenger bag (who makes more of an appearnace later), listened to a great band... again with messenger bag, and chatted with some randoms out for halloween.

All told, it was an interesting eveing filled with men to look at... but look only.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Brain Sex

First a brief explanation of the concept and then why it would have worked for the Greek Goddess.

When I first saw the Astrophysicist I was thrilled by his foreign shoes (which if you’ve missed, I can identify foreign men on site based on their footwear), his lanky build, his dark hair, and his pale skin. I told him without hesitation that we would not be getting to know each other better physically since he was merely a temporary interloper on American soil. Then he started talking math. Big numbers. Physics. Velocity. Force. Einstein. Space. Luminosity. Celestial bodies. Theoretical astrophysics beyond simple gravitationally-bound objects in the universe.


Brain sex.

Then my pants fell off because I am gravitationally-bound.

The same thing happens when people discuss music theory, philosophy, business strategy, market trends, chemistry, differential equations, culinary arts, thermodyn… well you get the point.

So the Cruise Director had a fabulous ginger bearded friend from Ohio with her for the weekend. Granted he was not as vertically blessed as the Greek Goddess, but still… YUM. He was earthy and artsy and educated… and as aforementioned, ginger bearded.

While we sat at the bar in Lakewood, the Greek Goddess and Ginger Beard started having a conversation that spun wildly from authors to philosophy to science to theories to I zoned out because all could think about was that the two of them should have brain sex.

They clearly connected mentally. Allow gravity to take hold of your pants next time, Greek Goddess.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Date 33: Preacher and the Peacock

The preacher has mentioned going out on more than one occasion. Always in instant messages though. The lack of personal touch in instant messaging makes me question the seriousness of the requests, but I tucked them away for use on a rainy day.

The day turned out to not be so rainy and the extending of an actual invite came from me… not in the form of an instant message, but one click more personal in the whole the scheme of technology driven quasi dating circa 2009.

The Dallas Museum of Art has fabulous jazz in the atrium on Thursdays and I thought, what better way to stoke the romantic fires than with art and jazz?

So I put on my peacock dress, watch an amazing art film that makes me cry a bit, discover that my favorite exhibit has been replaced with what is a pathetic excuse for art that I can only describe as disappointing at best (or a good excuse to blind myself to be more to the point), and then settle at a table in the atrium with a glass of wine to wait for the preacher.

He arrives. There is no fire to stoke. Jazz and art are unnecessary kindling for an empty fire pit… or perhaps a pot belly stove… I like those. Clearly he was just as disinterested as instant messaging might imply. No big deal. He brings up the ex. I reciprocate by bringing up his ex. He mentions that I’m still single. I return the favor. He politely says we should hang out more often. I agree. Then we part ways.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009


Being aware of your flaws is a good thing. It helps you to isolate and correct them. However, I have know of my inability to control the disgusted looks that creep on to my face during conversations, movies, social outings, concerts, meals, etc for years and have thus far been unable to fully block their occurrence. With that being said I can only imagine the face I made when my date told me he did not have friends growing up because he was "gifted". Apparently, this was the sole reason for him not having had a sleepover or any other kind of social life beyond the classroom.

I must admit, I'm a little take aback. Where I went to school they called it "gifted and talented" and I had friends. Maybe it was the talented part that made the difference.

I was feeling sorry for Gifted and his lack of sleepovers. Then his life became more tragic with the knowledge that his parents used to buy him board games but he had no one to play them with... so he played with his mom... once or twice... then she ditched him as well. Yikes.

I ask again why he thought he had no friends. Gifted abandons the term "gifted" for a reference to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.


"You know, X-Men."


"You've heard of X-Men, right?"

"Yes, I graduated with James Marsden's sister."


"The guy with the sunglasses that keep him from lasering people with his eyes."



Clearly this is going well. He orders pot stickers. They come. He looks dismayed that he waitress brings vegetable. She asks if we wanted pork. He seems unable to speak as he looks at her incredulously. I tell her we're fine. She leaves. Gifted searches the table for chopsticks. There are none. Just napkins and forks.

"Do you see any chopsticks?"

"No, just forks."

"How are we supposed to eat?"

I didn't go to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, but "I'm guessing the forks."


The waitress reappears with water and asks if we need anything else. Again, gifted becomes mute. Perhaps he is using his mutant ability to speak with her telepathically. So I ask for chopsticks... out loud.

The food arrives moments later... family style. I ordered pad thai with tofu and he ordered lo mein with pork. I offer him some pad thai, he offers me pork. After we both decline he questions my no.

"But I ordered pork."


"It's close to bacon."


"You like bacon."

"I like the smell of bacon."

"So you like bacon. You like pork."

"No, I'm a pescatarian."


"Pescatarian. Like vegetarian with fish."

"No, you told me you liked pork."

While I'm certain that I talk a lot and tell people way too much information about myself, I am also certain I don't tell people I like pork. Gifted however is not letting go of this so easily, so I change the subject.

Awkward conversation.

I change the subject.

Awkward conversation.

I change the subject.

This drags on for nearly two hours, when I glance at my watch and say that it is late and time for bed.

"Is that an invitation?"

"An invitation for what?"

"You said it was time for bed."

I'm thoroughly disgusted even though I'm sure he's mostly kidding. Sensing my pain, the waitress brings the check and the fortune cookies.

He hands me a fortune cookie. I happen to think this screws up the magic of the fortune, but really at this point, who cares.

My fortune tells me to be frugal. Okay. Accept that he wants to pay for dinner. Financially frugal. Don't feel obligated to kiss him even though you feel sorry for him. Sexually frugal. Don't respond if he texts you for another date. Textually frugal.

Gifted's fortune tells him not to get overzealous and expect too much. He reads this aloud and then looks at me and laughs saying, "I guess this means I shouldn't try to kiss you."

"Yep, pretty much."

Friday, August 21, 2009

31.Postlude: The Call

Ahh... the call that made a girl's heart feel a little less abandoned.

London and I were talking today (for me)/tonight (for him).

He quietly told me he loved the stars.

He whispered that he missed the stars.

He gently told me he feels the same way about a girl called Lacey as he feels about the stars.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

31.The Conclusion

London went back to London today. Eff London (the location not the person).

I had a meltdown. A big one.

I will never have any love for Terminal D again. Full of London (the person not the location) stealing bastards.

31.10: 10 Days of Greatness

Today wrapped up ten days of relaxed joy.

London and I finished up the last bit of cleaning at the lake house and headed back toward DFW. He's pretty hung over and I am hungry. We make a great pair right about now.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

31.5: Wayne's Wine Bar Doesn't Have Bad Mojo After All

London and I had another proper date night, this time at Wayne's Wine Bar (you remember, the place that I used to like a lot more, but then I had a few bad dates there... the pepper in my teeth date and the date where I was far more interested in the guitarist than the date date. I was certain though that if there was a way to break this cycle it would be with London.

We enjoyed great wine and great food. Wayne told us of the trouble with gay men who like large hands, the Main Street Bakery Staff was good for a laugh, and there was a very unfortunate woman waiting for her husband, sort of.

She was loudly discussing in a somewhat slurred voice that she was interested in going home with someone other than her husband because he simply didn't satify her. Apparnetly they weren't frequenting that activity ofen enough for her. So an awkward fellow sitting at the bar offered his services.

"I'm sure I could take care of that, but you're married."

"No thanks... I want to be with a woman. I'm a lesbian."

Okay, she's married but thinks she's a lesbian. I think she's just drunk. Either way, she spotted me. I'm not sure what about me looks like I'd be down with getting it on with a married chick, but regarless I was saved because as she told the entire place why she wanted to go home with me and what she wanted, despite London sitting beside me and not being a part of her plan... her husband walked up behind her. Yikes.

Either way, London and I left shortly after that mess and enjoyed an evening on the deck. Another great night. :)

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

31.4: Pork, Potatos, and an Awful Excuse for Corn

I don’t really enjoy cooking. It’s only fun if you are cooking for more than one person (the extra people should be people you actually like, otherwise it is still no fun). So tonight, because there was an amazing man making my house smell like testosterone and sex appeal, I broke out the pots and pans.

London had picked out pork in some form that I did not recognize (to be fair I can only identify bacon, pepperoni, and pork chops). I let him know that I did not mind cooking it, but he might mind having to eat it when I was done. So into the kitchen he came to finish up with his meat while I finished the sides and my main dish.

It was a nice sit down meal (at the table, which might be the first time I’ve ever eaten at the table since moving into the house over a year ago). The pork came out well. The potatoes were fabulous. The rolls were warm and buttery. The corn tasted like death.

Monday, August 10, 2009

31.3: London does Fort Worth

This morning, I took London to brunch with the ladies. He can’t stop talking about how one of the girls (who shall remain nameless to protect her from the masses) thought he might know someone she knew in London like it was a small town. I remind him that she did not intend it that way, she was just making conversation. He still won’t let it go.

After a ton of time with friends, we decided to take it easy tonight. London and I avoided the crowds and headed to Sundance Square for dinner and a movie. It was a proper date night with great conversation and a relaxing movie about psychotic killers.


Sunday, August 09, 2009

31.2: British Invasion Meets West Virgina

Tonight London and I met up with other like minded weekenders for sushi and then drinking and dancing at the Glass Cactus. For anyone not from the Metroplex, the Glass Cactus can be either exciting or unsettling but always an interesting look into the local culture.

Having lived in this part of the country most of life, I find the drinks at the Glass Cactus grossly overpriced. London on the hand thought they were pleasantly under priced. Londoners have clearly been bamboozled by the beer industry.

We danced, we drank, we danced some more. London tried to buy beer. “Bud Light” translated, “Bud” did not. He was frustrated, but persistent.

By the end of the evening, Montana had laid the smack down about his overabundance of manners, he had started a legitimate Texas line dance (his lie to perpetuate, not mine), we had seen the most frightening woman belly thing dancing on the stage (The quickest way to get hot girls escorted off the stage? Throw in an ugly chick.), and meandered back to the car.

Then it happened.

“Take me home… county road… to a place… I belong… take me home… West Virginia… take me home… I belong… country road… take me home…”

I can only assume this was a British remix of John Denver?

He crawled up the stairs to the bedroom singing to himself and drifted off to sleep while humming about a state he couldn’t locate on a map to save his soul… not that West Virginia is a major global player… or player at all.

Saturday, August 08, 2009

31.1:British Invasion- 0 to 60

Nana, Primos, Quarter Bar, Trinity Hall...

What a mess. London is here and I feel like a school girl, unsure of where I stand, insecure about how I must have changed since we last saw each other, and giddy still just to have him here.

The night went by so fast. We had wine, then margaritas and beer, then mixed drinks, then I can't remember... dang that Trinity Hall.

I am a lady and thus I do not kiss and tell (okay I do), but if you guess, well- I can't be blamed for that.

Friday, August 07, 2009

Date 31.i: Prelude to the British Invasion

As I stepped out of my car in the parking lot in front of DFW’s terminal C, I quickly dropped the towel covering my swimsuit and grabbed the shorts and sweatshirt from the backseat. I twisted my hair into a less than fashionable bun that went nicely with the just rolled out of bed looking outfit I had thrown on just 10 yards from a line of taxis. I checked myself in the side mirror on last time, reminded myself that objects in the mirror are closer than they appear and I had not lost weight in the last 10 minutes, and headed toward baggage claim. Well, Lacey, chocks away.

As I sat on the floor staring at my phone, wondering whether London would be dismayed by my post swim lesson look and question why he’d spent hours traveling to get to me I spotted them out of the corner of my eye… foreign shoes. I pride myself on my uncanny ability to sport foreign men by their footwear and London did not disappoint with his distinctly British trainers.

 Insert slightly awkward hug here.

Then, “is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “No.” “Is that your bag?” “Yes.”

As we drove to my house it was clear that exhaustion had sucked the quick wit (and ability to keep his eyes fully open) right out of him. No bother.

A few moments of wanting to kiss him later, I crawled into bed with the dog to call the cruise director and apprise her of the situation.

Tomorrow I will go to work and he will rest and when I get home, Robert is your father’s brother.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Date 30.2: This Couldn't be Saved with Second Hand Smoke

As I left my house on a slightly rainy evening to pick up Montana and my purported Scottish-Canadian turned American BFF so we could head to Addison home of the Two Ts for a fantastic evening of Foreigner, my text messages notification beeped.

“Hand Me Downs* said you two were going to Taste of Addison. That should be fun!”

Strange. Pretty sure I was going with Montana and my purported Scottish-Canadian turned American BFF to meet the Two Ts and some other randoms. My confusion was interrupted by my text message notification once again.

“Let’s meet up for Taste of Addison.”

Who am I to stop Hand Me Downs from joining us for taste of Addison? The more the merrier, right? I let him know what time and where we are meeting and continue on my way to meet up with everyone after a quick stop at IKEA for a kitchen in a box. We get to the Two Ts place about the time that everyone is heading out for Bowling for Soup. Hand Me Downs is lost… and late. We wait patiently, or as patiently as one can be when someone had more than ample time to get where they are going and lives 10 miles closer than I do and there was perfectly good beer being consumed by someone other than me.

Hand Me Downs arrives in style with no hat (wow… didn’t remember him being that bald), a raincoat (true it was sprinkling but seriously who wears a raincoat to an outdoor concert in Addison?), and an umbrella that he was using kinda like a cane (only he wasn’t wearing black clothes and a sweet bowler hat/billycock and strolling in the park whistling to himself… that would have made the umbrella thing okay). Goodness, he has aged since I last saw him mere days ago.

Perhaps Foreigner will have the same cloud of positive energy that Dave Matthews had. Then things will smooth out and I will know that we were meant to continue dating in a haze of positive energy.

No such luck. This couldn't be saved with second hand smoke anyway.

Hand Me Downs had his sister meet him out there. He decided he didn’t like where we were standing and moved back a bit. We stood in silence only occasionally speaking. Montana was uncomfortable. My purported Scottish-Canadian turned American BFF was uncomfortable and decided to go in search of lingerie and jewelry or some such absurdities. The Two Ts weren’t uncomfortable, but it was clear they thought I was.

Thankfully Hand Me Downs is elderly and was too tired to stay out late will all us crazy kids and our rock and roll music. The night wasn’t a complete bust due to other company and a rousing rendition of Hot Blooded followed by an evening of F the Dealer back at the Two Ts.

Monday, May 04, 2009

Good Thing I Inhaled

I love Dave Matthews.

Admittedly, I did not love Dave Matthews until 1996 when I decided that I would let him crash into me any time.

In 1998 on a trip across the border I took Dave's advice and didn't drink the water.

In 2002 as I packed my things to move yet again, I told Dave, "stop asking... I don't know where I'm going."

I even loved DMB in August 2004 when at least 120 Chicago tourists hated Dave.

I loved Dave through low times... and high times... and really high times.

Today, in the pouring rain and ridiculous storms, I stood (slightly damp) loving Dave. I was with the Triathlete's Hand Me Downs. A guy that wanted her and made that plain to me (he was late to meet me because he really needed to stop and buy Cliff bars for her even though she was out of town... no really, I don't mind when someone is late when they have such a good reason). But alas, there was hope... not only was the music amazing, again, I love Dave... but there was this cloud of positive energy. The energy was so thick I think I could actually see it rising from the crowd in a haze. Positive energy smells familiarly sweet.

What little I know about metaphysics leads me to believe I have a gift! Certainly not everyone has the gift to see positive energy.

So I took a page from Lyndon B Johnson who once said, “The American people have a right to air that they and their children can breathe without fear.” So I took a breath and suddenly there was hope for the date. I saw Hand Me Downs in a new light. He seemed sweet. Conversation seemed to be going well. I didn't really mind the rain. He was looking less bald... and less old. His banter about the Triathlete seemed almost endearing. The image I had in my mind of him in a wetsuit flailing about in the lake has nearly dissipated. And the intense guitar vs saxophone action that was occurring on stage... priceless.

Back in his SUV (cause what single 40 something year old man doesn't drive an SUV) we chatted on the way to my car. Then it was over as quickly as it had began. I was still enjoying my elevated mood so I decided to treat myself on the way to some Whataburger... hooray for Taquitos. This day keeps getting better.

I had such a great night, but in retrospect, there was nothing that made this match feasible. But for a fleeting moment, Dave made anything seem possible.

Sunday, May 03, 2009

Chronic Dating

One of my friends mentioned over Sunday brunch that I was a chronic dater.

An afternoon of shopping, a wine tasting, and quick workout later, I found myself pondering the statement, or more specifically, the term chronic dater. A quick trip to the thesaurus in search of a better term to replace chronic left me disappointed, but after a quick trip to the dictionary and a little online etymology search I was left with a new perspective...

Chronic: being long-lasting and recurrent or characterized by long suffering
Long suffering.

Well isn’t that apropos. Apparently in the beginning, khronos (which is Greek for “time”) became khronikos (Greek for “of time”) which became chronicus (Latin) then chronique (French) and finally chronical… Then in 1601 someone gave it a vague disapproving sense by associating it with disease. Did that man sitting in his broad lace collar with his full, slashed sleeves, tall broad hat and breeches have me in mind when he made that fateful association that turned chronic from time to long suffering?

Perhaps, but doesn't that make it that much better when my days of chronic dating are over? I like to think so.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Date 29: Simply Fon-don't

All I can say is wow... with the exception of the few things I have planned in the next couple weeks, after this one, I need a break.

Simply Fon-Don't was perfect on the phone. His emails were witty. He was my type.

Nerdy. Smart. Dark hair. Pale skin. Tall. Did I mention nerdy?

We met at Simply Fondue in Sundance Square. When he came down the stairs my heart skipped a beat. I was smitten. The wait was just a few minutes and we were whisked off to the table.

The menu was overwhelming and I could feel my food issues boiling to the surface. I shook it off though, because this guy was dating gold.

Conversation was comfortable. The restaurant was lovely. My phone was vibrating. *Ignore*

The obligatory, what does he look like/are you okay/should I call the cops texts were streaming in. No big deal. He looked like someone I could totally get horizontal with which made me more than okay and there is no reason to call the cops... the fire department? Perhaps. This date could get hot.

He tells me he works in a secluded basement type room with no windows, no cell phone service, no outsiders. No big deal.

He tells me he doesn't really like working with other people. Okay, he enjoys going solo sometimes. Fine.

He tells me he doesn't actually enjoy working out. He just does it so he doesn't gain as much weight. Well...

He tells me he doesn't get to work at any particular time because he likes to sleep in and sometimes he gets up midweek after 10am. Free spirit. Loves the night life. Ummm...

He eats his food. And then mine. And then asks the waitress for more of some things. And suddenly I feel like he is eating my soul one fried piece at a time. I get tunnel vision and all I see is chewing. Dipping. Sizzling fried pieces of meat. Stabbing another morsel of uncooked food. Dipping. Sizzling. Chewing.

I actually feel like I might pass out. It's hard to explain. Here was this smart, witty, attractive man and I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear forever. I could have worked with the anti social man lacking in a schedule, but the eating, that I just couldn't do.

The problem with this date was definitely me. Thus the break. I need it. I've done well maintaining emotional distance from this whole mess until now. This evening, however, has resulted in tears.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Date 28: 22, Lives at Home

In an effort to expand the demographics represented here, I went out with a 22 year old golf cart salesman who lives at home in a converted garage apartment. While I was overwhelmingly flattered with his "I love older women"-"amazing body"-"know what you're doing"-"eat fresh fruit and cream in bed"-"go out of my way to make satisfy you" brand of conversation and impressed by his young 6'4" frame, he lives at home... and he's 22.

Saturday, April 04, 2009

Date 27: I Already Knew Him But Needed eHarmony to Tell Me We Should Go Out

Brunch in Uptown with the Greek Goddess, the Cruise Director, Montana, the Triathlete, and Lunchtime Sex needed some spicing up. But still... what was I thinking. Infectious Disease had asked if he could join us to meet some new people. I didn't want him to be the only guy (or the only guy I had awkward history with) so I invited Bus Trip.

On the drive to Uptown my phone started ringing. One at a time all the ladies bailed.

Dear Jesus, please don't leave me at brunch in Uptown with two men that I have had uncomfortable moments with. Really, Lord. Do I deserve this for brunch? Me, me, me, me, me. Oh- and keep my friends (the ones that ditched me and left me in this predictament) safe. Amen.

Another text. Infectious disease was out as well. Apparently I "got him sick." Whatever.

So Bus Trip and I have brunch. Just the two of us. He asks if I did this on purpose. No, it was all Jesus.

So the eharmony thing... There is no shame in eharmony. The commercial tells me that this could be an everlasting love. The problem with being on eharmony and being part of some major social networking groups though... bumping into people online that you know in real life (not just Bus Trip, but the guy that was student council president my freshman year of high school, 3 people from the junior chamber of commerce, 4 of my former hockey customers, 1 coworker at my new job, and 2 people that have pictures with their best friends on their profiles letting me know that I was matched with best friends).

Then he mentions that this could be an eharmony date. He knows about the blog. No big deal. He gets high scores. After brunch he took me on a ride on the trolly.

Shame on you! It was an actual trolly. We chatted with other people on the trolly. We sat closer than necessary to each other. We made plans to hang out more often.

Is it likely that anything will come of this? No, I'm pretty sure Bus Trip has been over me since... well... the Bus Trip. And that was in the Spring of 2008. Practically a lifetime ago.

Friday, April 03, 2009

Date 1.Shoot Me in the Face: No Really, Somebody Shoot Me in the Face

Today's plan:
1. Workout
2. Work
3. Watch hockey
4. Possibly play tonsil hockey

But you know what they say... the best laid plans...

So I wake up late. Not so late that I feel like a disgusting sloth, just late enough to miss my workout. No big deal.

I go to work, get a lot done, like abruptly remapping my career path in a thought-I-was-going-to-Portland-Oregon-drive-for-26-hours-oops-I-was-supposed-to-go-to-Portland-Maine sort of way. Again. No big deal. Just a few tears. Every second. As I drive to pick up Link. Looking all blotchy. And running late. Again. Whatever.

Link and I meet Montana and McDeidle at the arena a little late. Things are okay now. Going to go ahead and scratch number 4 off the list. No point in messing up my streak of not quite getting things right today.

Fast forward to the part you actually care about... the shoot me in the face part. I get hammered. Absolutely, embarrassingly, everybody looks good, eyes only half open hammered.

Back at Link's place I consider napping on the couch. We start to talk. I have no filter. Clearly he is not too bothered by this since he doesn't stop me. I mention that I should go. He says I should stay there, clearly I ought not drive. I say i don't want to sleep on the couch. He offers his bed, with him in it. I say he's all talk. He agrees. I ask him why. He says he only hooks up with girls he doesn't really like. I get confused and scan the room for a calendar from 1998 and college tshirt. He explains further that he hooks up with girls and then casts them aside. I give him stink eye and much more sober than I had felt mere moments before ask what that's about. He tells me of his plan for the future and how certain things are guarded. Apparently not everything. No, but he doesn't say, "I love you." Right on, me neither, I think it's oogy and sure fire way to cause a relationship meltdown...

The year was 1997. There was a man sitting on my bed in my very girly room in the dark... crying. I tried to say the right thing. Not my strong suit. He was still crying. Have you ever seen a man cry? Talk about uncomfortable. Try again. Nope, no dice. "I love you... ?" the crying stopped. My motivation was completely misplaced. And thus was born my aversion to the term.

But Link... oh no. His problems are bigger than the crying man. the conversation is a fuzzy mess after that. Perhaps Montana will chip in and remind me how it ended since I called her on my drive home. Regardless, wow. I brought this on myself 100%. Why didn't someone stop me weeks ago. Feel free to tell me next time you see crazy coming my way. If you warn me and I don't react, make like it's a bus and someone please push me out of the way.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Son of a Pastor Man... Groundhog Day

January 26th, 2009:
"I went out with the son of a pastor man (again... I know... I'm like a kicked puppy... I keep coming back even though I know it's gonna suck) on Monday."

March 28th, 2009:
I went out with the son of a pastor man (again... I know... I'm like a kicked puppy... I keep coming back even though I know it's gonna suck).

I feel like such a let down. I'm pretty sure I clearly stated back in January that I was done. But there I stood at my kitchen counter last weekend accepting an invitation to go to an intimate concert with Link. David Wilcox... never heard of him. I do love music though. And he seems like he might have a James Taylor vibe going on. Who doesn't love James Taylor? Besides, it's not like I have an expectations anymore. And again, I do love music. And he's driving, easy enough. BYOB at a yoga studio promises to be comfortably granola so I should feel at home. And have I mentioned I love music?

Justify poor decision making... check.

As usual I am running late. So instead of meeting at his place we meet at a hotel near downtown. Seedy? Hardly. I was just leaving my car in the Hilton parking lot.

We make a quick stop for beer so he can brown bag it and I grab some sort of overpriced Starbucks in a bottle and we head over to the studio. There is virtually no where to sit, but we make our way to the front anyway. We find a very cozy spot, he sat on the couch amidst lesbians and a much older woman and I sat on the floor in front of him with his new bff's wife.

His new bff turns out to be a man who cries… a lot… a snotty kind of crying… with tissues and toilet paper… and whimpering. Good thing he doesn’t really know the guy. I’m certain we both dodged a bullet. Besides this guy thought he knew Link from Dallas Seminary and Link, as I would come to find out, has little in common with his dad the pastor.

The concert is amazing. Link whispers to me to tell me which songs he likes. He gives me a little back rub. He sings along. The music is fabulous. I make a few mental notes… maybe the Starbucks in a bottle is worth the price and when I get home I need to buy some David Wilcox on iTunes.

I have a really good time. I start to think there is some sort of hope for Link and I.

Absolute trickery.

So I go home knowing that I had a wonderful time. And perhaps in the future things will change with Link, but for now, still nothing physical.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Date 26: Wow

So Khaki Pants doesn't reply to me all week... Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday...

Sunday at 11pm he tells me he meant to reply sooner but his week got crazy. Really?

If a man is interested he doesn't get too busy to text, call, or email for a week. I don't need an over hyped book to know he's just not that in to me. And I deserve better than that.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Date 20.2: Infectious Disease at the MAT

After repeatedly promising Infectious Disease that I was 100% healthy and I wouldn’t be giving him the flu, we made plans to go to Frankie’s and watch the Duke and UCLA games. For some reason, I was stressed about what to wear. I was coming from work and he was coming from the gym. Clearly slacks and a dress shirt are not the best option for a sports bar. So…

I arrived at Frankie’s a few minutes early wearing jeans, heels, and a graphic tee. Good choice I guess. We’ll have to wait and see what he is wearing. I walk in to look for a place to sit. No room. I go to the patio. No room. I go to the restroom. Plenty of room and a restroom attendant.

Now I’m not opposed to someone making a living. But I am opposed to paying for soap and paper towels in a restaurant bathroom at a sports bar. It’s almost (brace yourself) more appealing to me to just not wash my hands to avoid digging through my purse, letting go of a dollar that I earned by actually working, not by sitting idly hoarding paper towels. Ridiculous. But I washed and dried and left her a dollar because I am a pushover.

So I go back out to the patio for some fresh air that won’t cost me a dollar where I can call Infectious Disease to let him know there is no where to sit. As I pace outside the restaurant, he pulls up in his black BMW. Seriously, that must be all they sell to young professional men in this town. Despite the fact that I look slightly like a hooker due to my getting in a random car in front of the bar, I hop in and we are off to find a better spot.

McKinney Avenue Tavern, The MAT.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in here at the beginning of the night. I generally assume that when I go to a place I swear I’ve been but nothing looks familiar. We find some seats outside, barely watch the game, have a few drinks, grab dinner, and generally enjoy each others company (no, that’s not a euphemism).

Sometimes I think the fact that we are both obnoxiously sarcastic gets in our way. But that’s part of life.

Now the question that remains is whether there is still anything there between us or if I blew that up in the past. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Update- So I didn’t give Infectious Disease anything this time. But he still managed to end up at the ER the next day. Yikes.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

PPH Part 4: Science at its worst

Supersaturation. The term refers to a solution (in this example, me) that contains more of the dissolved material (in this example, alcohol) than could be dissolved by the solvent under normal circumstances (in this example, any day other than St. Patrick's Day or New Years Eve). Now the issue? It seems that at some point in the afternoon when I thought I was okay, we suffered a terrible miscalculation. Nucleation.

Nucleation is the extremely localized budding of a distinct thermodynamic phase. Note that nucleation is a physical process, not a chemical process... I only say this to clarify that I do not have a chemical dependency or substance abuse issue.

Look at it like an unstable supersaturated solution of sodium acetate. So, if you can think of each molecule (drink I've had during the day) as a domino in a meta-stable state of being stood on its edge, and realize that there are 10^22 molecules in a drinking glass sized system, it only take one impurity (one more drink) to knock them over. Dominoes resulting in omnidirectional needle-like crystals radiating outward from the impurity on contact at the solution's surface.

In layman's terms, with visual aid...

I had one, maybe two small cups of beer (beer ponging it up) and then I made a newer new friend.

PPH Part 3- I blame the police

No worries. He didn't eat my face or anything. Turns out he's younger than me. By more than a lot. So I meander back over to my friends who have decided we should go to some house parties. Frankly, I think they only intended to help me walk off some of the morning's activities since it was barely after lunch time.

So down the street we go. Pretty sure we walked 50 miles, or at least a couple blocks. We arrived at granola's house with his fancy hardwood floors and sexy granola appeal. I was in no condition to discuss his sexy granola appeal with anyone and decided to stand near the first boss, the triathlete or Montana and nod my head about whatever they were interested in talking about. Then I ate some carrots. Sober people eat carrots. Good for me.

The problem was, by the time we left granola's house my ability to talk to strangers had diminished. I was feeling insecure and awkward. I mostly wanted to go grab lunch as the mini donuts and carrots were turning out to be less than filling as the only meals of the day. But we moved on in search of yet another party.

The police forced us off the main road and into a neighborhood. Little did they know, that quick detour would be the turning point in my entire day.

We stumbled on a party full of Montana's coworkers. I was pretty much back to my normal self. And stood close to Ken at the edge of the yard... at first.

PPH Part 2

Now after you see a parade float for bail bonds that says "because it really does" and you have to decide for yourself if they are refering to jail being no fun or the relationship you might develope with your new cellmate, there is only one thing to do. Eat more mini donuts and drink more champagne. Out of the bottle. Standing in front of the port-o-potty.

Then you make more random friends. You take pictures with them even though you have no intention of ever seeing them again. You do some jello shots. You drink more champagne. Then you realize the illustrious stripper, bail bond, alumni group and bar floats have come to an end. It's a good thing someone was taking pictures. I don't think I saw more than 3 floats (if you can call a flat bed trailer full of drunks a float).

So we headed toward Trinity Hall with our new friends. On the way we stopped at the cruiser so I could drop off the cooler and put on deodorant... in front of strangers. Unfortunately at this point all hope of my having any manners was lost.

Trinity Hall brought us more drinks and more firends. Sadly though, the people who met us there were still, what's the word I'm looking for... sober. On the flip side, the triathlete turns out to be an amazing wingman for her drunk friends and somehow this happened...

Pale People Holiday

It's interesting how Americans have managed to pervert a holiday celebrating the life, death and lasting legacy through mission work of a saint. We've turned a Roman-Catholic feast day into a gumbo filled with lame phrases such as "kiss me I'm Irish", "Do you have any Irish in you? Would you like some?", "Who's your paddy?" and an assortment of commercial items from cheesy hats to green feather boas. What a disgusting gumbo.

I, however, fondly refer to the day as Pale People Holiday (PPH). It's not a government holiday, but it should be. The only reason it's not? The government has a thing against gingers.

So, I rose fairly early to prepare for PPH. I gathered orange juice and champagne. I hunted down mini donuts. It was my mission this PPH to class up Greenville. If you're going to drink before noon, make it a breakfast drink. So you don't like mimosas? Try a bloody mary (I like mine super spicy with avocado as garnish). There we are standing about on our newly claimed piece of American soil, an accomplishment not so easily attained by our Irish immigrant forefathers. It was prime real estate. A few feet from the parade, a few more feet from the port-o-potty, a few more feet from a plethora of drunken gingers and engineers celebrating pi day.

I was in heaven. And it was classy. At first.

Then this happened...

Date 26: Back to Legitimate Dates

I ran across Khaki Pants during my online dating attempts. True, the psychic told me I should be dating guys with dark hair, but hell, I thought I would give Khaki Pants and his blonde locks a shot.

We had been communicating through a series of long emails and text messages. He seemed witty and good natured. So, there I was. Running on about 4 hours of sleep. Slightly hungover. Chapped lips from making out with Seersucker last night. I'm sure I'm exactly what Khaki Pants is looking for in a woman.

So I was early, he was late. I had on jeans and was enjoying a venti soy chai. He had on khaki pants and was not really enjoying black coffee. In retrospect it's clear this isn't going anywhere, but at the time I saw nerd and I got excited. Woohoo! My favorite thing.

So he tells me he was in orchestra. I tell him I was too. I guess that he played the violin. I was right. He guessed that I played the clarinet. He was wrong. I let him talk about himself. He let me talk about him. But still, all I felt were butterflies and I was certain we would eventually have a white picket fence, 2 kids, and a garden full of fresh herbs. At the end of each day we would make sweet, sweet music with our stringed instruments. How perfect.

We walked to our cars. I didn't want to kiss Khaki Pants(the first red flag I actually chose to acknowledge but then excused away). I figured I liked him SO much I didn't want to kiss him. The connection was clearly there on a friend level and I could create chemistry with this math major turned MBA.

But alas. Khaki Pants didn't want to see me again. How does that happen?

I was rejected by a nerd. Fantastic.

Date 25: 1999 Revisted

For those of you who knew me when I was 19, no explanation is needed. For those of you who have only known me since moving to Dallas, brace yourself. I used to be a lot more fun, but not always in a good way.

I'm fairly certain none of what follow constitutes a date... but since it did result in kissing... more than one person... I'm making the call to include it here.

Trinity Hall 23 did not play a major role in my day except that he was the key that started the car for the test drive I would be taking later. Thanks Trinity Hall 23. We appreciate your service.

So to be brief, I met this guy at a party. Well sort of met him. After hearing my plan to kiss random boys, some girl suggests her friend seersucker. Seersucker obliges and kisses me. We start to leave and I kiss seersucker again. We play beer pong. Seersucker shows everyone his balls (not of the ping pong variety). We leave with his friend apathy. Seersucker and I stop in a bar. We see his boss. We have some shots. We leave the bar. We get a cab. We go about a block and get out of the cab. We find Montana and apathy at some house. We stop on the way to check out a lawn. Nice landscaping. We go to apathy's place. There is nudity on the television. Seersucker gets up to go to the bathroom. Montana and I leave. Montana is an awesome state.

There are many details omitted both to keep some semblance of dignity and because there are huge gaps in my memory.

Did I give him my number? No. Did I get his? No. Does it matter? No.

Test drive only. Car works fine. Need a better driver than seersucker. He's more of a renter than a buyer. Thanks to Trinity Hall 23 for finding the key.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Date 24: I think Wayne's Wine Bar is Bad Mojo

What do you get when you add dim lighting, great art work, music, an amazing wine selection, fabulous staff and a cozy little restaurant/wine bar together? For most people, I'm pretty sure you get sex. For me you get a giant piece of pepper stuck in your teeth that you don't notice until you get home and a guy that won't be calling again.

Friday, March 06, 2009

Date 23: There are two kinds of 39

And he was the bad kind.

We had great conversation over the phone. He makes me laugh. He's gainfully employed. He seems fairly conservative politically. Things are falling into place nicely. At one point during a conversation he mistakenly starts think I'm a non meat eating Presbyterian... ( I said pescatarian)... the whole thing was confusing, but still funny.

So I drive over toward Addison after work. I am okay with the distance I am having to drive away from my house, because this one has so much potential to pan out into greatness. After all I'm certain that at this point I've shluffed off the negative dating energy (which I think was compounded by the psychic talking about it out loud).


Nervous energy.

Check my makeup again.

Cover bags under eyes from a long day at work.

Bite lips to make them more red and puffy. That says "I'm so kissing you"

Get out of car.

Adjust top so the girls look as ready for action as possible.

Trust that he doesn't break the mold and stares inappropriately at my chest.

Walk toward restaurant.


Casually check to make sure zipper is zipped. Check.

See him coming toward me.

Consider kissing him to start the date and get it out of the way while my lips are still stinging from the bite.

Change my mind.



Rub my eyes.

eHarmony is full of liars.

Is he 5'7"?

I think he may have grand kids.

Throw up in my mouth a little.

Get through the meal.

Reconcile the evening in my head with the realization that he would be a fun friend.

Not a friend with benefits to clarify.

More of a last call, everyone else you know is out of town friend.

Let him pay.

I've already paid emotionally.

Wow. He makes 39 seem really old.

Avoid his offer to walk me to my car.

The negative energy is back. Thanks Miss Cleo.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Date 22: He Owes Me $35

Once again I shake off the bad and I get all kinds of excited about how things are going with the banker. He sends text messages that make me smile all day (I guess banking doesn't require a huge amount of time). He talks about finding the right girl to eventually settles down and have a family with. He likes to golf and says he doesn't drink that often. He shares pictures of him with his neices and nephews. The banker... he pretty much is offering me free checking, no atm fees, great interest rates, etc. I'm into that. I do love marketing... and banking. It's a match made in the college of business.

So we make plans to go to the hockey game on Sunday. Then I don't hear from him. Then I get a text about golf. Then a text about drinking and golfing. Then a text about meeting me after the game.

Yikes with the booze Mr. Banker man. You're a little too much. All those things that made you so attractive? They had fine print that I missed. Your texting wrote a check you couldn't cash.

You should know better. Writing checks you can't cash results in overdraft fees. You owe me $35.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Date 21: Self Inflicted Wound

I didn't want to go out tonight. I told Leather Couch I was busy this week. I told him more than once. But I'm that girl. That girl who no matter how opposed she is to wasting her time with a certain owner of leather couches... she eventually gives in and wastes her evening with him anyway.

The night was uneventful. Nothing to talk about. I managed to barely speak. I avoided him by bringing along other friends. He tried to tell one of my friends something about dating using his vast knowledge of women (ha). I rolled my eyes so far back that I gave myself a headache.

On the way to the car I told him goodnight.

"Well... it was nice seeing you. My car is that way. See you later."

"Let me walk you."

"No thanks. My car is just in the next lot over." That was a lie. My car was a good block away.

"Let me walk you."

"Really, I'm fine. I walk by myself all the time down here." Sure, cause I'm a dumb girl that walks by myself downtown in the dark often.

He was so persistent. But I know how leather couch is. You give him a yes to walking you to your car and the next thing you know you are laying on leather couch staring up at the wall and a painting of a boat that you think would be perfect in the waiting room of a urologists office wondering how he got his hand up your shirt. No thanks.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Date 20: Infectious Disease

Infectious disease didn't have an infectious disease until after the date.

After all these awkward dates, I needed a sure thing.

Flashback to April 2006.

He looks good on paper. Met him a few days before. Dropped a quick email the next morning saying hey... which does wonders for a girl's self esteem. He's quick witted. Able to dish out as much (if not slightly more) as I am giving him. Impressive. He can keep up mentally. Put a check mark in his plus column. Back and forth with the email. Perhaps we'll see each other Thursday, maybe we should car pool, let's meet after work. Pause.

We meet up in Frisco, he brings me hot tea. He suggests we ride together to his place and carpool from there. Okay.

So in the house. I make mental notes as I get the official tour. Furniture matches, although obviously man furniture. Hardwood floors. Nice patio. Very clean. Organized. Duke MBA (like I wouldn't notice that). Great artwork. Cross above the bed (Catholic?). And then my mind wanders... He seems to add up to such a nice piece of man... so what is wrong? Could it be that he intimidate women with his nice clean home or his education or any number of things that I am finding intimidating... Could it be that when he talks in person and not via email he is socially inept... possible. Could it be that he has six toes on his left foot... who knows.

Back in 2009, I decide to call infectious disease. I mean, my blog paints him out to be a pretty decent catch and he's still on the market. This must bode well. I've kissed him before, so there's no pressure there. Well a little pressure maybe.

Sometimes infectious disease and I have great chemistry, some times not so much. Sometimes I want to kiss him like a high school girl while we lean against my car outside fireside pies. Sometimes I want him to take his stupid Transformers dvd and get out of my apartment. I tell myself to shake it off. I haven't seen him in ages (since the Transformers incident as I have come to call it).

So he meets me at the Stars game. Still cute? Yes.

We sit. We watch hockey. We flirt. We drink a few beers. I cough. He asks if I'm feeling okay. I tell him I think so, probably just allergies. He doesn't kiss me. He's afraid I'm sick. I tell him I'm not. We both know I'm lying.

Two days later I wake up in a cold sweat. My sheets are all wet from the sweat. I'm dizzy. I try to get up to go to the bathroom. I fall. I vomit. I have the flu.

Sadly, so did he. Hence, infectious disease.

But what have we learned from all this?

#1. It's okay to reread a book, especially since now you can skip to the parts you like.

#2. You might as well kiss me if you want to. Even if you don't, I still might give you the flu. And isn't it better to get it from making out than from sharing a few fries?

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Date 19: He Thinks I'm a Slut, I Think He's a Jerk... I Guess That Makes Us Even

This experience can be summed up in about 5 minutes of actualy activity. We leave the bar in his car. My car is only a few blocks away. He asks why we don't get to know each other biblically. I say because I have other plans and I'm late. He laughs and says we should because he knows I'm a slut. He means this as a compliment. He offers to bring the delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol if I bring my vagina. Classy. Still, no thanks.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Date 18: It Never Happened

To be more accurate, it did happen, just not for me.

We talked about going out a few times. We just never could quite make the connection. Besides, he made me promise not to write about my date with him, which makes the whole prospect of going on a date far less exciting. So why the post? Because if there was no legitimate dating, I can write about the lack of dating and not feel bad about myself. Semantics.

We finally got our ducks in a row a few bar nights back. Then he hit on my friend the triathlete. While I was sitting there. He put his hand on the back of her chair. He focused the conversation on her. When I mentioned it after the fact, he said something to the affect of "you were having fun, but she wasn't so we felt like we needed to pay more attention to her so she wouldn't make you leave."

Happy birthday to me because apparently he thinks I was born yesterday.

I am hopeless when it comes to the idea that there is the tiniest chance that I will one day be swept off my feet by a man who kisses me awake, I will shrug off my mermaid tail and fit my new foot into a glass slipper and we'll learn that it's not about looks but rather living in a world where everyone sings about everything and we'll live happily ever after.

I know that's not whre this was going. He was just trying to help me fill my quota, but it still stung a smidge.

Then valentine's day rolled around. Again we go out. Again he says, "don't write about me." I'm sensing that the reason he doesn't want to be written about is because he's about to pick up another chick while we're at the bar and pawn me off on one of his friends. Hahaha... kidding. Who would do that in real life?

Oh wait... this guys would.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Date 17: Dukes of Hazzard



Moderatly intelligent.

Good time.

Good kisser.

Impresive ability to slide across the hood of his own car.

Second date? No.

Huge potential for friendship? Yes.

Possibility of more kissing in the future? Why not.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Date 16: Ice Cream and Old Friends

Why we are never single and on the same page at the time, I am not sure. Perhaps the ten years and the over abundance of history prohibits things from coming together, but I'm guessing it's my lackof blonde hair or ridiculously (unnatuarally) firm breasts. Who knows.

Regardless, he did buy me ice cream and what girl can bad mouth an outting that culminated in ice cream paid for by a man whether or not he wants to sleep with you?

So... kudos. Automatic high rating on this one.

Sunday, February 08, 2009

Date 15: Pedafiles Always Have that Kind of Mustache

This was over the moment he decided to not shave the makings of his molestache before leaving the house. With the traffic in DFW and the driving distance to most bars, at best, this date was over 25 minutes before I laid eyes on him.

Friday, February 06, 2009

Date 14: Pearl Snaps and an Affinity for South American Mujers

So I am white. Very very white. Painfully, stereotypically white.

I am a grammar freak rather than a freak in the sheets. I don't have enough junk in my trunk to be classified as more than a mini cooper... that car won't even hold groceries for more than one person for a couple days. Think this... ... only circa 2009.... which might make me more like this...

Regardless, as I sat across from pearl snaps listening to him rattle on about himself (I'm getting really good at listening to men talk about themselves and have almost forgotten that at some point in my life I actually thought conversations went both ways and included more than one topic), I wondered if he could do anything else other than spit out 1001 facts about himself in record time.

Then a moment of hope. He started to change the subject.

Hope was fleeting however as his new topic of conversation took shape.

"I love Latina women. Did you see those two girls over there?"

"I did...?"

"They are smoking hot. En fuego. I love the curves on Latina women. Did you see their asses?"

"I did...?"

Now I can clearly see where the stereotypes are taking this conversation. But who am I to stop this gem of convo?

"Latina women are less inhibited in bed. I am really into that. I mean seriously, I hope I'm not offending you, I'm just being honest."

"No please, honesty is the best policy." And it makes my friends laugh more later than if this were going well.

"Have you ever been with someone Latina?" This he said with the smarmiest tone he could have without the use of a zappa stash, which he did not have even the slightest makings of.

"You mean Latino?"

"Heh-heh. I guess that's what I meant. Unless you're into that sort of thing."

The rest of the time spent with pearl snaps is a blur of my wishing I were less conservative, more curvy, not so pale, and some how exotic... or something. But, I am still very very white. And as I stood to leave the table and walk quickly away from pearl snaps, I grabbed the waistband of my jeans to pull them the few inches back up to my waist since my lack of curves weren't keeping things in place.

Thursday, February 05, 2009

Date 13: Two Delusionals Do Not Make a Good Match

He thought he was too good for me. I knew better.

I thought I was too good for him. He knew better.

The problem?

Neither of us would step down off our high horses long enough to stop judging each other silently. My face said, "in your dreams." His face so, "actually you're not the kind of girl I dream about." The whole thing was very unfortunate. Perhaps the psychic was right. I am clearly projecting a terrible negative energy during dates. I'm aware of it. I see it floating from in like the black smoke thing in LOST (I never understood that show). Oh well. I continued to look at him with a skeptical eye knowing that if I let my guard down for half a second he might weasel his way in and end up making me sorry I feel for it down the line. He continued to look at me like he knew I was "that girl", the one that no matter what a guy does it would never work out. Delusional. Both of us. What a match.

Sunday, February 01, 2009

Date 12: More Comfortable with Cancer than Conversation

So I kept running into the oncologist in the strangest places. The ice cream place in Uptown, the Central Market in Southlake... It's not like I generally run into the same person in both of those locations. Seriously, they are like 30 miles apart.

So he swims, runs, cycles, loves to travel, is a doctor, and has the social skills of a squid. I keep running through the whole mess with a little Ben Franklin decision making. No matter how many positives I have put on the list his crazy lady laugh makes this a no go. I think chortle is perhaps the best description of it. The more uncomfortable he got, the longer the date went on, the more he laughed in that frightful way. Yikes.

*chortle chortle*

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Date 11: Too Painful and Not Funny

So I actually met a nice guy. I was into him. He was not into me. Nothing else to report.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Date 10: Microsoft... No, that's not a euphamism

Apparently Microsoft works for Microsoft in a mob like way. In true mobster fashion, he is open about his work but follows the "I work for Microsoft" statement by saying that he can't actually tell people he works for Microsoft. Sounds a little shady to me.

This guy, much like Sammy Gravano, couldn't stick to the mob rules of speaking nothing of what you know and not speaking about things that should not be spoken. Both are rats... Unfortunately, for Gravano, he is wasting away in prison with a thyroid disorder and multiple convictions. Fortunately, for Microsoft, I'm pretty sure he was lying about working for Microsoft, not breaking the sacred covenant he claimed to have made with Microsoft regarding the secrecy of his supposed employment.

I know I openly profess to have a thing for nerds, but seriously, let's not make things up. And if you feel the need to make something up, go with astrophysics. It's a heck of a lot sexier than Microsoft.

"Never open your mouth unless you're in a dental chair"
-Sammy "The bull" Gravano.

Son of a Pastor Man, The Final Date

I went out with the son of a pastor man (again... I know... I'm like a kicked puppy... I keep coming back even though I know it's gonna suck) on Monday. As usual he texted that the night had more in store romatically than previously dates, but I resigned myself not to get my hopes up. We ordered take out from Carino's and I met him at his place with a bottle of wine in hand. Promising? Yes.

After dinner we watched tv. He suggested I get more comfortable. What does that mean? There are so many levels of "getting comfortable." So I took off my clothes.

Okay, not really, I leaned back on the couch with my feet up. This is a big move for high strung Lacey. Props to me from me. Thanks me.

Does this added level of comfort result in any action? No. Still promising? No.

BUT... Tonight I tried something new. At the end of the night instead of wondering if he was going to make a move, I chose to reject him. I stood up and said, "I have to go." He said, "wait- give me a sec."
But I didn't. I just left. Didn't even let him walk me to the door. He looked stunned. Who's the kicked puppy now?

Which brings me to the end of the story about me and the son of pastor. It turns out the song is all wrong. The only boy who could ever reach me? The only boy who could ever teachme? No. No, he wasn't.


Saturday, January 24, 2009

Date 9: Oklahoma


Usually being around people I have something in common with puts me at ease. I don’t think that is the case with people from Oklahoma. I actually believe on some level that everyone worth knowing from Oklahoma, I already know. I spent 15 years there meeting people. If during all those years I missed a good person, our friendship/relationship simply wasn’t meant to be.

“What is your ring for?” I ask being all smiles and sunshine.

“It’s my Mason ring. It was my grandfathers. When I joined the Masons I started wearing it and quite wearing my Oklahoma State ring.”

My mind flashes back to crazy college parties in Stillwater. There is always the unfortunate possibility when I meet someone my age or a few years older that went to OSU that I made out with them during a bet (common bets with my roommate included who can kiss the most guys in one night without feeling obligated to have a conversation of any kind, bonus points if you don’t tell them your name). So like a rapid slide show I rack my brain… he does kind of look like Josh Rasp… Mmmm Raspy… He was fun.

In the spirit of Raspy, I order another drink. The waitress stops by and Oklahoma orders for me. He remembers what I had at the bar earlier in the evening; he even remembers the extra garnish. I’m impressed.

I tell him I will definitely write nice things about him in my little notebook where I am keeping notes so that I can keep everyone straight in my head. I’m a bitch. I’m lying to him. He’s too short for my cute shoes. He would know this if we both stood up. Raspy was too short for cute shoes too, but as a college freshman flip flops and chucks were my shoes of choice. Both flat.

Sorry Oklahoma. I dig that you lived in Great Falls. I dig that you traveled all over the west coast on 6 month road trip. I totally dig that you grew up with horses and used to bull ride. In a perfect world where flat shoes reigned, we would be a match.

But this is the real world. Even average looking pale girls are superficial.



Date 8:The Date Formerly Known as Dumpy Guy #40: I’m Going to Hell


Guy sits down. I originally planned to refer to him as Dumpy Guy #40, but as I told my brother about the interaction, a new name was born…
Sure, at this point I’ve had a few drinks. But I’m not so intoxicated that I am being unreasonable. I have however lost control of some of my manners. So as he tells me about his son who he doesn’t have custody of but still gets to see on occasion even though the bitch of a baby momma tries to keep him from their kid blah blah blah… I realize I am rocking slightly from side to side.


It was an unconscious action and the question I asked myself next, “why are you doing that?”

So I sit on my hands and refocus on the story.

“If you don’t like to go 178 miles an hour and do things fast, I’m not the guy for you. I just had back surgery. I was throwing hay. I haven’t left the house in over two weeks until tonight. My son wants to be me. Wah wah wah wah wahh wahh waaaahh wah wah.”

Well, date formerly known as Dumpy Guy #40, you’re not the guy for me for a lot of reasons, one of which has just become glaringly obvious. One: You’re dumpy. Two: You have a kid that you don’t have custody of for one reason of another. Three: Your stories result in a lot of Charlie Brown adult speak that sounds all “wahh wahh wah wah wahhh wahh.” Four (the glaringly obvious reason): I was rocking back and forth because I can’t tell if you are looking at me and unconsciously I was trying to shift into your line of sight.

That’s right, Googly Eye had googly eye. No telling if he was looking at me, or Tiffany, or the girl to my left, or the picture behind me, etc. You know what I’m talking about and if you laughed, at least I’ll have a friend in hell.

I’m wishing the host would blow the whistle on this. It’s making me nauseous like a spinning carnival ride. Maybe Googly Eye is wondering when this will be over too, he seems to be looking for her, or me, or something… again, I can’t tell.


Date 7: What? Do you swim too?


Suit jacket sits down. I ask how his night is going and he tells me it's okay since he has a beer. Begin dissertation on how much he loves Shiner.

"If you love Shiner beer and barbecue, you should look into Shiner GASP... actually it may have a different name now."

"What is that? Is there beer?"

"Well you meet in Austin and ride your bike 102 miles to-"

"What? Do you swim too?"

He sounds completely disgusted at the fact that I would mention a bike and then assumes that must mean (as appalling as it was to him) that I also swim.

"Yes. Why?"

"Well that girl swims and run and bikes and does those triathlons and-"

"Yes, I know, that's my friend Tiffany."

At this point the conversation is dead in the water. He has such a level of disdain on his face. This must be how Teal Shirt, Piano Man and Sandy Blonde Mess felt sitting across from me. No, surely I was friendlier than his guy is being. Then a break in the clouds. A moment of hope. A glimmer.

"So what else is at that bike thing?"

I perk right back up. I love talking about these things.

"Free beer, brewery tours, live music, barbecue, vegan options-"

"I didn't even think they let those... vegetarians into Texas... Wait let me guess... you're one of those people too."

So two minutes into our four minute almost love connection, it was over. I didn't bother speaking anymore and neither did suit jacket. FYI, I work with an office full of guys I see in suit jackets. Funeral home directors wear suit jackets. Door to door office supply salesmen wear suit jackets. The two attorney's that bought me some fries earlier because they felt sorry for me after they saw me talking to Teal Shirt are wearing suit jackets. Wearing a suit jacket does not make you awesome. I'm actually certain you've had a full awesomectomy removing all the awesome you once had and leaving you a shell of man in a suit jacket who says offensive things to the lifelong swimmer recently turned pescatarian from vegetarian. Oh, it does get you nicknamed Suit Jacket. Kudos on that big accomplishment, Suit Jacket.

Date 6: Sandy Blonde Mess


Sandy Blonde Mess strolls over with a very laid back surfer vibe. The only problem? He's not a surfer.

Okay, I lied, that is not the only problem... That is just the first in a string of problems.

- He's wearing track pants in a bar, not funny-guy-who-wears-track-pants track pants, I-thought-this-would-lend-credibility-to-what-I'm-about-to-tell-you track pants

- He's wearing them with a polo in a clashing color

- He claims he's a tennis pro ("really? where?" I ask mustering up fake interest. "just some place in Plano" thanks for being so vague)

This brings us to a little intermission in list of problems. When I ask someone a direct question and they don't give me a direct answer, I assume they are hiding something. So rather than tell me something I no doubt would have forgotten 2 seconds later, cause let's be honest, I couldn't have cared less, he get's all vague. Hey Sandy Blonde Mess D-Bag, this is speed dating, spill it. So I am forced to come home and run a little Google interferance on his criptic answer. So if anyone is interested in where they can find a Sandy Blonde Mess D-Bag in Plano (this specific one, I am aware there are a lot there), email me and I'll let you know. Back to the problem list...

- He claims he teaches at all ages (I'm sensing a piano man vibe with the teaching, please don't list the 50 states)

- He says there are no single people in Plano and he ought to have a wife and kids (like asap? yikes)

- The only thing about him that makes the tennis pro thing somewhat likely is his sun damaged skin

- Zero personality... "Hi! Brick wall? It's me, Lacey."


That actually seemed short. I must have blacked out for a minute or two.

Date 5: The Piano Man... Yep I definitely threw up in my mouth

In the spirit of the piano man (who gets a nickname not just because I think it’s the fair thing to do when I am writing about people who don’t have the opportunity to defend themselves, but because I honestly couldn’t have told you his name 15 seconds after he walked off) I will be including a ridiculous amount of music terminology, most of which will be grossly misused.


When piano man sat down I was feeling fairly at ease (Adagio). However he immediately began speaking as loud as possible (fortississimo), shouting at me across the 36 inches that separated us. Perhaps playing piano had caused him to suffer a bit of hearing loss.




Having been asked twice (bis) makes me a little irritated, but the way he is clasping his hands into a piano fingered, white knuckled mess makes me fear that perhaps he will lunge across the table and strangle me should I mention his mistake.


This 4 minute conversation was intended to for two voices (a due) but I am feeling so anguished (affanato) that all I can do is sit with closed mouth (bocca chiusa). He seems very agitated (agitato) as he spits the details of his life at me. In an almost warlike, aggressive (bellicoso) way, he asks, “DO YOU GO TO CHURCH!?! EVERY SUNDAY!?! WHERE!?! SO YOU READ THE BIBLE!?! HOW OFTEN!?! HOW WERE YOU RAISED!?!” As he asks he gets faster and louder (incalzando). I answer his questions half softly (mezzo piano).

At first sight (a prima vista) I didn’t expect such an attack without a gap or pause (attacca). But for four minutes I felt like I was dying away (espirando).

I would say it is fairly evident why I have blocked his real name from my mind. Clearly he was a sociopath.

Date 4: Teal Shirt... I think I just threw up in my mouth

Clarissa explains it all and the triathlete call dibs on teal shirt before I even notice him, so while I will be spending 4 minutes with him, I will not be enjoying his company further. Is it fair to call dibs in this manner? No, and usually I would call BS on the whole business of calling dibs, but Teal Shirt is a walking nightmare and Clarissa explains it all and the triathlete clearly called dibs just in case he was wearing a giant full body (with mask and poorly cut wig) suit that he would rip off at the end of the night exposing his true sexy self… or at least a man who looked as though he had checked himself out in a mirror since the 90s. Little did we know at that point that Teal Shirt might have been the best the night had to offer.


Teal Shirt sits down and I am thankful I only have to spend 4 minutes of my life talking to him. No less unfortunate looking than this fellow, it turned out that Teal Shirt had bigger problems than his looks. He informed me of his goals… eventually finish school, get a job doing… something… get remarried (that’s right, I may have been unable to find a spouse, but Teal Shirt, he has had at least some level of success even though it ended in heart breaking divorce that took him all of 3 weeks to get over before he started speed dating, though technically it didn’t even take that long cause he said he has been to a lot of speed dating events… yikes)… live in Dallas County forever. Go ahead, picture Squints from The Sandlot… For-ev-er. For-ev-er.

At this point I am sorry to admit exactly how judgmental and rude of a person I am (probably why I’m single), but Teal Shirt is causing me pain. I start to laugh and have to cover my mouth. He’s so sad. I try to stop laughing. I snort. I choke back more laughter. My eyes start to water. I have no control over the fact that I am laughing at this guy to his face. The triathlete says I just looked like I was enjoying the conversation. That’s good, because what I was really enjoying was his pain.

After what seemed like eternity, I was put out of misery. Surely this is as bad as it will get.


Speed Dating… Oh the Shame

The Triathlete and I decide that rather than try to go on 29 separate dates, we will submit ourselves to one of the most shameful experiences in modern dating. Speed Dating. 4-6 minutes of uncomfortable conversation. Whistle. 4-6 minutes of uncomfortable conversation. Whistle.

The Triathlete, a gorgeous, educated, well spoken, gainfully employed executive is humoring me by coming along. No girl wants to pain herself with this kind of activity alone. When we arrive, we meet Clarissa Explains It All. She is alone. We invite her to join us… safety in numbers. A few minutes in the door and the night is already reminding me of something I saw on National Geographic around a watering hole.

I remind myself this is for research. And it kills multiple birds with one stone.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Date 1.?: If You Could Even Call it a Date

Guys always say they are confused by what girls actually want. Well, let me tell you. We want to be respected, know that you like us for who we are not what we look like. But at the same time, we have to know that you find us at least a little bit physically attractive otherwise, why not just go hang out with your buddies.

Tonight’s plan… head to the wine bar where I will have a chance to look hot due to the very dark lightening and the booze. Could I give myself better odds? No. So the plan, if I still feel like a leper* at the end of this, I will wash my hands of this particular man. Besides I’m certain there are other men that given a dark room and wine would make a move.

So I arrive at the wine bar a few minutes late but not as late as Link. I sit beside an attractive older gentleman at the bar a few seats away from another older gentleman. The waiters and the two gentlemen are very friendly. They chat with me as I wait (patiently) for Link. He calls at 7pm, 15 minutes after we planned to meet. “I’m lost.” Well, it takes a special man to admit that, so 1 point to Link.

After he finally arrives, he grabs a seat next to me and goes through a very painful to watch wine selection process. For that, no points. I even considered giving him a negative point for the length of time it took.

There is little to no conversation occurring. He mentions that I am being quiet. I tell him I am working on being more comfortable with silence. He tells me he appreciates that and winks. Winks. Winks? Does that mean, “wow I’m glad you finally shut up” with a wink at the end to make it seem like less harsh of a statement. Either way I let it slide because I am slowly developing a red wine haze.

Guy next to me keeps talking to me, guy on the other side of Link keeps talking to me, guy next to me leaves and sexy-sexy musician swoops into the seat and starts talking to me… Link, not doing much talking to anyone.

I would like to take this moment to say that women do not want a man that goes into some blackout jealous rage. But seriously if every guy in the place is talking to the girl you’re with, at least mark your territory. Put your hand on my leg or at least the back of my chair (that doesn’t break any skin on skin contact rules that may be in effect).

At some point in the evening Link says, “I would spend the night with you, but I have to be up early in the morning.” At this point I’m wondering if I asked him to spend the night and forgot… pretty sure I didn’t. But heck, I’ll play along. “Earlier than I usually get up? Cause I can set the alarm.” No response. Okay, tested the water, not good, no swimming today.

Then after what seems like a never ending evening of my wanting him to make a move, his not making a move, and sexy-sexy musician playing sexy-sexy music it’s time to go. Standing outside, Link has the nerve to reiterate that he would take me up on my offer to come over if he didn’t need to be up so early. I am still wondering what offer he is talking about. So I snap. “I call BS on this.”

“You call BS on what? You’re offer?”

“I didn’t make an offer and I call BS on your wanting to come over. You don’t even touch me in a wine bar.”

“It was too public.”

I don’t think there is a word that could describe the irritation I felt. Wine bar? Too public? For a simple gesture? I’m not asking him to get naked and do a dance. I’m asking him to show some interest somewhere other than a text message. Could I feel more undesirable? No. Could I be more irritated? No.



I forgot about the superhero powers that men wield. As he leaned in to hug me and PAT ME ON THE BACK I realized, I can in fact feel less desirable and be more irritated.

Then 30 minutes later as I lay in bed reading a book about torture and murder trying to cheer myself up, a text.

“Sorry I faded there at the end. I barely made it home. Already in bed. Had fun and maybe next time I’ll touch ya ;)”


*Not to be confused with a person affected by leprosy, but rather the lesser known definition of a person who is avoided by others, a pariah or social outcast.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Date 3: Dallas Rallied, My Date Didn't

The Stars rebounded from a 3-1 second period deficit while I sat wondering if the guy I was with would allow me to speak. He was one of those really loud talkers so you know everyone around you is listening thinking, “wow, they are on one awkward first date.” Well, awkward is an understatement.

To kick off the night, the vegetarian hockey player said he was hungry and needed to use the restroom. It’s 7pm and the puck is about to drop, could either of those things have been handled before this exact moment? So he uses the restroom (which takes longer than most men, I’ll give him the benefit of believing he washed his hands really thoroughly and not that he had to sit). Then we make our way to a concession area where he orders a hotdog. For reference, please feel free to look at the seventh word in this paragraph. Was it a Morningstar Farms® America's Original Veggie Dogs® link? No. It was a regular old hotdog. Beef? Pork? Who knows, but it sure as heck wasn’t soy.

So Hot Dog asks me a question. Apparently he has put a 3 second limit on my answer before he breaks in to tell me something else. Question, 3 second, interrupt, question, 3 seconds, interrupt, question, 3 seconds, interrupt. The overall theme for the evening? Enough about you, let’s talk about me… in my LOUD VOICE. I must make a note to apologize to the people who sit around me at the next game. “Sorry guys, I won’t bring him again.”

So I am engrossed in the game. A reminder of why I usually take Matt, he doesn’t expect me to have a chatty conversation during play. He patiently waits until intermission of a stoppage. Three minutes left in regulation and Ott (henceforth Otter Pop cause I love those things) scores to tie the game at 4-4. I know, I’m leaving out a lot of pertinent hockey details for instance… Parrish, Robidas, Grossman, Otter Pop, and Daley all scored for Dallas (that’s five) while Hot Dog didn’t score at all (that’s zero).

Daley put in an amazing shot in overtime to give the Stars the 5-4 victory over the Detroit Red Wings. Hot Dog, still zero.

Goodbyes were… well… again, awkward. All I could do on the way home was be thankful there wasn’t a shoot out or a gun because I might have shot myself.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Date 1.4: The Date that Resulted in the Cancelation of Date 3

As I sat in the entry area at Macaroni Grill I found myself observing a woman in boots, a floor length skirt with a slit up each side and a grey jacket/blouse (who's to say exactly, either way it was out of style). She had been at the hostess stand when I arrived.

"Did you already seat Steve, party of two?"

"I don't think so?" (the question mark is because most hostesses always look somewhat confused thus making statements more like questions)

"Don't you seat people by name?"

"Yes, but we don't keep track of where we seat people after we seat them."

"But I'm meeting him here."

"You are welcome to walk around and look for him."

"But I... never mind."

So I put my name on the list and head out to the entry to wait. It's a small area between two sets of doors which made it impossible not to watch the woman. She pulled a business card out of her purse with a phone number and the name Steve scrawled across the back in sharpie. Clearly she was on a first date. Clearly she didn't know what he looked like. Clearly she was freaking out. She paced in a frantic way that made me feel anxious as well and I wasn't on an awkward first date. I was getting tense, so I moved inside and sat on a different bench to wait. Moments later she came in and sat beside me. She would sit, then stand, then pace, then look at watch, then sit. It was a vicious cycle and I was wondering where Link was and when he would be saving me from this woman. The more she paced, the more I felt nervous for her. On a side note, if she needs courage to get through the date or something else that is part of dating, she should knock back 4-5 cape cods before he gets here. Then she'll have enough oomph for the date and a drunk text or two or 12 later tonight.

Link shows up and I immediately feel more relaxed. He is balancing her nervous energy with his relaxed nature. So dinner, great conversation, a car dealer's house burning down... typical date night. After another really enjoyable evening with Link, all I could do was cancel my late night drinks with Date 3. Maybe I'll reschedule, maybe I won't. But regardless, I can't go from Link to someone else in the same day. From someone else to Link? That would be doable.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Date 2: The Slow Talker That Killed a Piece of My Soul

All I can say about date number two is yikes.

Had the chair I was sitting in been slightly more comfortable I am certain that I could have taken a pretty intense nap.

The... slowest... talker... in... the... entire... world... took... me... out... for... coffee... and... even... the... espresso... that... he... drank... did... not... increase... the... speed... of... his... speaking... or... his... wit.


I can say though that I was inspired by a friend and midway through one of his very long and uninteresting tales of his depressingly boring existence, I bailed.

"So... then... I... tell... the... guy... I... only... wanted... "

"Um, slow talker? I gotta jet. No reason other than that you talk so slow that by the time I decide whether you could possibly be less interesting, I'll be 45 years old and out of viable eggs. Thanks for the tea."