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*