This is the first part of the conversation where he actually demonstrates that he has a pulse. Until this point he's just been a miserable, snarky, wholly unattractive man with a flat affect. The dudes with the Jameson's and the oxygen tank are having more fun than me and at least one of them is actively dying.
The dog was an adorable boxer. He shows me a picture on his phone. He talks about what a great companion she has been. What a personality (someone has to have one) and what loyalty. He's so animated and jubilant at this discussion that he waves down the bartender and orders us some appetizers. Nice to see has some passion about something but a little disappointing that it is his dog and not his job or some fascinating hobby or favorite past time. Hell, it could be a charity that he supports. Gushing about your dog is not unlike gushing about your children. Of course you love them. Tell me something I don't know.
We are still talking about the dog when the appetizers arrive. I am a little surprised that there is so much he has to say about the pooch but relieved to not have to carry the entire conversation myself, and especially relieved that we have not turned the conversation to the topic of my employment "situation."
Talk about a buzz kill. I can't imagine having to explain my current lack of meaningful work to a drone whose only redeeming quality to date appears to be his pet. He'd feel superior. I'd hate that.
I ask him if he has any other pets (I can't imagine that there is much more ground to cover with the boxer. It's not like he can go on gushing about the dog going to law school or anything). He looks at me like I'm nuts.
I must look baffled because he makes a snarky face and says he doesn't have the dog anymore.
So we were just taking for 40 minutes about his imaginary pet? Is this like Sigmund the Sea Monster?
He continues, with an attitude that suggests that I missed a critical part of the conversation (maybe when I was mesmerized by something more interesting like the beverage coaster) that the dog is dead.
Steve Martin is in my head saying "Well excuuuuuuuuuse meeee!"
"Oh, I didn't realize that from what you were saying," I say, fighting the urge to add "you asshole" to the end of the sentence.
Moving right along. While he stuffs another nacho into his mouth and chews with his jagged little teeth, I ask him how long ago the dog died and if he's ready to get another one.
He sucks a little bit of jalapeno from his teeth with his tongue and says, "Yes and no. I thought I was ready, but now that I've not had a dog for a few months, I think I kind of like the "no dog" lifestyle."
"I totally get that," I say. "I'd love to have a dog, but I am not home enough, nor are my kids, to give a dog the attention it would need. And I am not home reliably enough to maintain a regular walking/feeding/run in the yard schedule."
"Yeah, that's what I mean. You have a whole lot more freedom to do things sort of spontaneously when you don't have a dog."
"That's why I have a cat," I say. Carefully refraining from mentioning that I have more than one so as to not sound like the crazy cat lady. "They can take care of themselves for a few days." And then I joke "And I think they'd prefer that I not be there all the time!"
His face loses all tension. His affect returns to flat. All the animation is gone. He looks directly at me and says "I don't like cats at all."
Deal broken. Time to end the date.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
False Advertising
Jack is not as advertised.
He resembles his profile pictures. Marginally. If you squint and look at them in very dim lighting. Loosely at best. The person in the pictures could have been his son. His taller, more smiley, much better looking son.
His hair is thinner in person. And grayer.
He's shorter. Much.
He's as muscular as he looked but I probably still outweigh him if I leave my shoes on.
He's not smiley. At all. His features are harsh and frowny and he has Bitchy Resting Face Syndrome.
I fretted over what to wear. He obviously did not.
He sits on the bar stool next to me. I immediately wish my bar companions were back at my side. Even the screechy one.
However, we have an easy time making conversation. We don't know each other at all so there is lots of ground to cover. I don't even know his last name.
And after about ten minutes I know I am not even interested enough to know his last name. With each new thing I learn, the picture gets a little more dismal.
For all his spouting off about adventure and being adventurous, he has barely left the safety of his own back yard. He grew up in the city, went to college around the corner from his family's row home and lives only about 15 minutes from there now. And the bar we're in? Walking distance from his house.
His career in "Bio Pharma?" He's a Lab Tech. He works for a Bio Pharm company but he's in research...and not in lab research. His big project currently is calling people on the phone from a list of people who are prescribed their latest drug and asking if they read the insert about the side effects before washing down the tablets with a Dixie cup full of water. Zzzz.
His place "at the shore?" A one bedroom condo on the mainland across the bridge over troubled waters from the actual shore. Definitely not a beach house.
And it does not ever improve from there.
He's snarky. Not funny snarky, mean snarky. Not an ounce of cleverness. Just an asshole.
He's never been married. I should have picked up my purse and fled at the mere mention of that fact. No one who is at all sane gets to be 52 without getting married. The closest he came was a live in girlfriend that lasted less time than a football season. I would love to know who ran out on whom but I am guessing that it was she who walloped him over the head with a cast iron skillet in a rage and fled the dwelling with nothing more than the clothes on her back.
He is one of seven children. He has nothing nice to say about 5 of his sibs and the best thing about his youngest sister is her dog.
Oh. He has a dog.
This is the most endearing part of the conversation. I lean in. If there is something redeeming about this man, this might be it. I should pay attention.
He resembles his profile pictures. Marginally. If you squint and look at them in very dim lighting. Loosely at best. The person in the pictures could have been his son. His taller, more smiley, much better looking son.
His hair is thinner in person. And grayer.
He's shorter. Much.
He's as muscular as he looked but I probably still outweigh him if I leave my shoes on.
He's not smiley. At all. His features are harsh and frowny and he has Bitchy Resting Face Syndrome.
I fretted over what to wear. He obviously did not.
He sits on the bar stool next to me. I immediately wish my bar companions were back at my side. Even the screechy one.
However, we have an easy time making conversation. We don't know each other at all so there is lots of ground to cover. I don't even know his last name.
And after about ten minutes I know I am not even interested enough to know his last name. With each new thing I learn, the picture gets a little more dismal.
For all his spouting off about adventure and being adventurous, he has barely left the safety of his own back yard. He grew up in the city, went to college around the corner from his family's row home and lives only about 15 minutes from there now. And the bar we're in? Walking distance from his house.
His career in "Bio Pharma?" He's a Lab Tech. He works for a Bio Pharm company but he's in research...and not in lab research. His big project currently is calling people on the phone from a list of people who are prescribed their latest drug and asking if they read the insert about the side effects before washing down the tablets with a Dixie cup full of water. Zzzz.
His place "at the shore?" A one bedroom condo on the mainland across the bridge over troubled waters from the actual shore. Definitely not a beach house.
And it does not ever improve from there.
He's snarky. Not funny snarky, mean snarky. Not an ounce of cleverness. Just an asshole.
He's never been married. I should have picked up my purse and fled at the mere mention of that fact. No one who is at all sane gets to be 52 without getting married. The closest he came was a live in girlfriend that lasted less time than a football season. I would love to know who ran out on whom but I am guessing that it was she who walloped him over the head with a cast iron skillet in a rage and fled the dwelling with nothing more than the clothes on her back.
He is one of seven children. He has nothing nice to say about 5 of his sibs and the best thing about his youngest sister is her dog.
Oh. He has a dog.
This is the most endearing part of the conversation. I lean in. If there is something redeeming about this man, this might be it. I should pay attention.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Bellying Up To The Bar
At the appointed hour, I dry my hair for the first time in weeks, carefully apply makeup, don the outfit of choice and get into my car with the A/C blasting. Humidity is not my friend. No one needs to go on a first date looking like Roseanne Rosannadanna.
I have no idea where I'm going but Siri does, and she guides me to the destination in that tinny little nasally voice of hers. Siri needs a nasal passage ablation.
I find a Miracle Parking Space, on the street, 10 feet from the establishment so my walk up the sooty, hot, humid street is short if not sweet. Maybe the white jeans were a bad idea. Maybe the date was a bad idea. Maybe the whole eHarmony thing was a bad idea.
Must. Not. Think. Those. Thoughts.
I walk into the pub and find a bar stool not far from the door so I can see and be seen.
There are two handsome, talkative young men seated to my left. There is a pair of older gentlemen around the corner of the bar to my right. One has an oxygen tank and nasal prongs and is trying to move his gear out of the way with every sip of Jameson's. His friend is just garden-variety decrepit. A fine crowd.
I order a beer. Jack sends me a text. He's stuck in traffic. I tell him I am at the bar with a beverage and not to worry.
And I wait. And I wait some more. I am trying to be dainty about the beer but I've guzzled more than half. Pretty.
The door swings open with the jingling of bells and I look to see if it is Jack.
It is not. It is two young girls, frazzled from traffic, joining the two young men, and pissed that they are late.
One is less apologetic. Blames the men.
"This isn't the main bar! You said you'd be in the main bar! WE were in the main bar." Her vice is going to sound like my mother's one day. I should tell her date. Run don't walk. This is the threshold of Hell.
The guy argues back, sounding less pissed than I would have. "This looks like a main bar to me. What other bars are there?"
The bartender chimes in, uninvited. "There's the Princeton bar, the Yale bar, the Penn bar...The Penn bar is the biggest. People call that the main bar."
Girlfriend with the grating voice smirks in satisfaction.
"Well you're here now," reasons the much too calm boyfriend. If it were me there would have been bloodshed by now.
But I begin to panic. It's been a while since Jack sent his "stuck in traffic" text. What if I am in the wrong bar? What if he thinks I've left?
I interrupt the two couples. The guys have ordered the girls a couple of medicinal pints for their nerves.
"Excuse me," I say to the guy nearest me. Both of them turn and smile. The girls look a little skeptical. Maybe they should be less bitchy. "I overheard your conversation. I am meeting a complete stranger here in a few minutes. In "the main bar." I am not sure I am in the right place. If I were your sister, what would your advice be?"
In unison the guys both blurt out, "Stay right where you are!"
I must look shocked because the one nearest me goes on the explain. "Don't you dare go traipsing around the place with your beer looking for him." He points to the mirror behind the bar. "Look at you. He'll find you. Trust me."
Kindness from strangers. Always so warming to the soul.
"You want us to stay and be your wing men?" he jokes. Miserable girlfriend with the brainwave-scrambling voice just about chokes.
I thank them and wave them off just as the doorbells ring again and in walks Jack.
The guys smile and move to a table with the girls. Jack sits down.
Not smiling.
I have no idea where I'm going but Siri does, and she guides me to the destination in that tinny little nasally voice of hers. Siri needs a nasal passage ablation.
I find a Miracle Parking Space, on the street, 10 feet from the establishment so my walk up the sooty, hot, humid street is short if not sweet. Maybe the white jeans were a bad idea. Maybe the date was a bad idea. Maybe the whole eHarmony thing was a bad idea.
Must. Not. Think. Those. Thoughts.
I walk into the pub and find a bar stool not far from the door so I can see and be seen.
There are two handsome, talkative young men seated to my left. There is a pair of older gentlemen around the corner of the bar to my right. One has an oxygen tank and nasal prongs and is trying to move his gear out of the way with every sip of Jameson's. His friend is just garden-variety decrepit. A fine crowd.
I order a beer. Jack sends me a text. He's stuck in traffic. I tell him I am at the bar with a beverage and not to worry.
And I wait. And I wait some more. I am trying to be dainty about the beer but I've guzzled more than half. Pretty.
The door swings open with the jingling of bells and I look to see if it is Jack.
It is not. It is two young girls, frazzled from traffic, joining the two young men, and pissed that they are late.
One is less apologetic. Blames the men.
"This isn't the main bar! You said you'd be in the main bar! WE were in the main bar." Her vice is going to sound like my mother's one day. I should tell her date. Run don't walk. This is the threshold of Hell.
The guy argues back, sounding less pissed than I would have. "This looks like a main bar to me. What other bars are there?"
The bartender chimes in, uninvited. "There's the Princeton bar, the Yale bar, the Penn bar...The Penn bar is the biggest. People call that the main bar."
Girlfriend with the grating voice smirks in satisfaction.
"Well you're here now," reasons the much too calm boyfriend. If it were me there would have been bloodshed by now.
But I begin to panic. It's been a while since Jack sent his "stuck in traffic" text. What if I am in the wrong bar? What if he thinks I've left?
I interrupt the two couples. The guys have ordered the girls a couple of medicinal pints for their nerves.
"Excuse me," I say to the guy nearest me. Both of them turn and smile. The girls look a little skeptical. Maybe they should be less bitchy. "I overheard your conversation. I am meeting a complete stranger here in a few minutes. In "the main bar." I am not sure I am in the right place. If I were your sister, what would your advice be?"
In unison the guys both blurt out, "Stay right where you are!"
I must look shocked because the one nearest me goes on the explain. "Don't you dare go traipsing around the place with your beer looking for him." He points to the mirror behind the bar. "Look at you. He'll find you. Trust me."
Kindness from strangers. Always so warming to the soul.
"You want us to stay and be your wing men?" he jokes. Miserable girlfriend with the brainwave-scrambling voice just about chokes.
I thank them and wave them off just as the doorbells ring again and in walks Jack.
The guys smile and move to a table with the girls. Jack sits down.
Not smiling.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
To Go Or Not To Go
With each and every sentence I dig a deeper hole with my nail lady.
I tell her about Girls Weekend first and she is giggling at the idea that all of us will be yukking it up away from all of our children and spouses. You can tell she thinks we are all headed for trouble - and that she is somewhat envious.
When I tell her about my eHarmony date, her giggling ceases and desists at once. Her brows furrow. She is making a little squeaky clucking disapproving noise. And buffing the shit out of my thumb nail while she's at it.
"That's trouble," she says. Or something that sounds like that. English is her second language. And she is a C- student, tops.
I tell her she should change her name from Joyce to Charlotte and ask her why it's trouble. Hasn't she ever gone on a date with a stranger?
She looks at me like I am a complete nut. I am not sure why. I wonder if I've just failed to grasp some otherwise widely known tenet of her culture. I shake my head and tell her all the things eHarmony says about itself. I sing the little jingle from the commercial and wish that one would come on the giant flat screen hovering above the drying machines. How pathetic am I? Even my nail technician thinks I am a moron.
She tells me I don't know this man. He doesn't know my family or my friends. He just wrote a lot of lies on the computer to get me to like him. In her heavily accented rant, she may have even called me a fool.
I ask her how it would be different if I'd met him at a bar after work and he'd asked me for a date. I'd know less about him than I do now.
It's amazing how far she could arch that one eyebrow in sarcastic disbelief.
Thankfully, she does not have the linguistic bandwidth to carry on a full blown argument about any of this. She finishes my fingernails in a pretty pale shade of shell pink and walks me to the drying machines. One for my toes, one for my hands, and a word of caution for my head. She looks me dead in the face and says "Be CAREFUL!"
I page through a Cosmo while my nails dry. Wedged between the fashion and the beauty tips are 3 stories, one each about a date rape, a near abduction, and a woman who saved a restaurant full of people from certain death and maiming by attacking their assailant with bleach. Even my horoscope was bleak.
There is a ping pong game going on in my head. Thoughts for and thoughts against this date:
Maybe I should cancel.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I could stand him up and block him on eHarmony. I'd vanish. Painless.
No pain, no gain.
What if he's endlessly boring, or a total asshole, or a complete buffoon and I am stuck there for hours until I can make a discreet and inoffensive excuse to leave?
What if he is hilarious and charming and smart and adorable and mad for me all at once and I miss it because I let my nail technician convince me that I am a fool?
I decide I am going.
I establish a secret trouble word with Charlotte. One text or one conversation cheerfully mentioning the otherwise benign word and the place will be crawling with police in a matter of minutes.
Cover me, Charlotte. I am going in.
I tell her about Girls Weekend first and she is giggling at the idea that all of us will be yukking it up away from all of our children and spouses. You can tell she thinks we are all headed for trouble - and that she is somewhat envious.
When I tell her about my eHarmony date, her giggling ceases and desists at once. Her brows furrow. She is making a little squeaky clucking disapproving noise. And buffing the shit out of my thumb nail while she's at it.
"That's trouble," she says. Or something that sounds like that. English is her second language. And she is a C- student, tops.
I tell her she should change her name from Joyce to Charlotte and ask her why it's trouble. Hasn't she ever gone on a date with a stranger?
She looks at me like I am a complete nut. I am not sure why. I wonder if I've just failed to grasp some otherwise widely known tenet of her culture. I shake my head and tell her all the things eHarmony says about itself. I sing the little jingle from the commercial and wish that one would come on the giant flat screen hovering above the drying machines. How pathetic am I? Even my nail technician thinks I am a moron.
She tells me I don't know this man. He doesn't know my family or my friends. He just wrote a lot of lies on the computer to get me to like him. In her heavily accented rant, she may have even called me a fool.
I ask her how it would be different if I'd met him at a bar after work and he'd asked me for a date. I'd know less about him than I do now.
It's amazing how far she could arch that one eyebrow in sarcastic disbelief.
Thankfully, she does not have the linguistic bandwidth to carry on a full blown argument about any of this. She finishes my fingernails in a pretty pale shade of shell pink and walks me to the drying machines. One for my toes, one for my hands, and a word of caution for my head. She looks me dead in the face and says "Be CAREFUL!"
I page through a Cosmo while my nails dry. Wedged between the fashion and the beauty tips are 3 stories, one each about a date rape, a near abduction, and a woman who saved a restaurant full of people from certain death and maiming by attacking their assailant with bleach. Even my horoscope was bleak.
There is a ping pong game going on in my head. Thoughts for and thoughts against this date:
Maybe I should cancel.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I could stand him up and block him on eHarmony. I'd vanish. Painless.
No pain, no gain.
What if he's endlessly boring, or a total asshole, or a complete buffoon and I am stuck there for hours until I can make a discreet and inoffensive excuse to leave?
What if he is hilarious and charming and smart and adorable and mad for me all at once and I miss it because I let my nail technician convince me that I am a fool?
I decide I am going.
I establish a secret trouble word with Charlotte. One text or one conversation cheerfully mentioning the otherwise benign word and the place will be crawling with police in a matter of minutes.
Cover me, Charlotte. I am going in.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Primp and Prep
Charlotte is sure I am making plans to meet and ax murderer and wants to get a nearby table with her son Griffin on the evening of my date with Jack.
I am sure I won't need the assistance, but it would be a hoot to see any poor soul's face the moment my very tall, very athletic, very deep-voiced nephew stepped in to assist with my date's removal from his bar stool and eventual face plant on the sidewalk.
Still, Jack seems really nice and easy going, so I am sure there will be no need for any wingman assignments being pressed into duty. Besides, I always buddy up to the bartender. This one will know that I am on a date with a stranger and know to look for signs of trouble.
Charlotte wants to know what I am wearing.
A g-string and a tube top, Char.
Seriously, I have to think long and hard about this. I want to look pretty and appealing, but do no want any desperate displays of skin and cleavage. I would pick a summer dress but none of them seem appropriate for a early evening pub meeting. It's not a cotillion and it's not a dinner date and it is not a high end establishment. It is drinks in a fun chain pub in an industrial town. I don't need to break out the Hyannis-wear and pearls. We won't be bumping into the Kennedys.
I raid Hil's closet (which sends Charlotte sailing over the edge for a brief moment.) I raid my 14 year old's closet because she has raided mine and all of my fun, hip clothes are now hanging next to her Uggs and Abercrombie.
I find a pretty peach top with some interesting detail - sleeveless and cropped to come just to the belt loops of my white skinny jeans. I have the perfect sandals. Flat and metallic, and easy to run in if I have to make a dash for the door. It is pretty, sexy, conservative and flatters me. I may have to recycle this outfit for other casual summer occasions.
My Girls Weekend at the beach begins Friday morning. I can not wait to see how this date goes. I will either have lots of good news or lots of advice to ask for from my gal pals. I am hoping for the former but it is a complete crap shoot.
I usually end up in relationships with people that I have known for a long time. I can't even remember the last time I went out with a complete stranger. By the time I'd gone on any sort of romantic date, I'd known the person for months, years sometimes. Decades in some cases (for all the good it did me in determining Scott's character). Maybe Charlotte is right. Maybe I am meeting an ax murderer and am blissfully unaware and not even nervous because no one gets nervous about a date when all of their dates have been with people they've known for a long time.
It is clear that I have no idea what I am doing.
Maybe I am really just so desperate for companionship that I would do something hare-brained. I wonder if those kooks who start writing letters to Federal Prison inmates and eventually marry them and maintain a life of solitude except for conjugal visits start out on eHarmony? Is this a gateway to other really bad social crisis decisions?
I decide to go through with it anyway. Every relationship starts somewhere, right?
Sure, Liza. Whatever you tell yourself..
In advance of the date, and in preparation for Girls Weekend, I decide to go a day early for my pedicure and eyebrow wax. While I am at it, I decide to get a mani, too. May as well put my best hand forward as well as my foot. The technician is elated. I never get manicures. She asks what the occasion is.
I tell her. Her elation all but evaporates.
Not a good sign.
I am sure I won't need the assistance, but it would be a hoot to see any poor soul's face the moment my very tall, very athletic, very deep-voiced nephew stepped in to assist with my date's removal from his bar stool and eventual face plant on the sidewalk.
Still, Jack seems really nice and easy going, so I am sure there will be no need for any wingman assignments being pressed into duty. Besides, I always buddy up to the bartender. This one will know that I am on a date with a stranger and know to look for signs of trouble.
Charlotte wants to know what I am wearing.
A g-string and a tube top, Char.
Seriously, I have to think long and hard about this. I want to look pretty and appealing, but do no want any desperate displays of skin and cleavage. I would pick a summer dress but none of them seem appropriate for a early evening pub meeting. It's not a cotillion and it's not a dinner date and it is not a high end establishment. It is drinks in a fun chain pub in an industrial town. I don't need to break out the Hyannis-wear and pearls. We won't be bumping into the Kennedys.
I raid Hil's closet (which sends Charlotte sailing over the edge for a brief moment.) I raid my 14 year old's closet because she has raided mine and all of my fun, hip clothes are now hanging next to her Uggs and Abercrombie.
I find a pretty peach top with some interesting detail - sleeveless and cropped to come just to the belt loops of my white skinny jeans. I have the perfect sandals. Flat and metallic, and easy to run in if I have to make a dash for the door. It is pretty, sexy, conservative and flatters me. I may have to recycle this outfit for other casual summer occasions.
My Girls Weekend at the beach begins Friday morning. I can not wait to see how this date goes. I will either have lots of good news or lots of advice to ask for from my gal pals. I am hoping for the former but it is a complete crap shoot.
I usually end up in relationships with people that I have known for a long time. I can't even remember the last time I went out with a complete stranger. By the time I'd gone on any sort of romantic date, I'd known the person for months, years sometimes. Decades in some cases (for all the good it did me in determining Scott's character). Maybe Charlotte is right. Maybe I am meeting an ax murderer and am blissfully unaware and not even nervous because no one gets nervous about a date when all of their dates have been with people they've known for a long time.
It is clear that I have no idea what I am doing.
Maybe I am really just so desperate for companionship that I would do something hare-brained. I wonder if those kooks who start writing letters to Federal Prison inmates and eventually marry them and maintain a life of solitude except for conjugal visits start out on eHarmony? Is this a gateway to other really bad social crisis decisions?
I decide to go through with it anyway. Every relationship starts somewhere, right?
Sure, Liza. Whatever you tell yourself..
In advance of the date, and in preparation for Girls Weekend, I decide to go a day early for my pedicure and eyebrow wax. While I am at it, I decide to get a mani, too. May as well put my best hand forward as well as my foot. The technician is elated. I never get manicures. She asks what the occasion is.
I tell her. Her elation all but evaporates.
Not a good sign.
Friday, December 13, 2013
The Dance
Evidently, in the world of eHarmony, an unassisted, independently composed e-mail is fraught with the potential for catastrophy, so they ask you to sign your life away before you can read it. They assume no responsibility for stalkers who may hunt you down on your employer's premises, or scrawl a nasty note on your car with a bar of Ivory Soap when things don't bloom and grow as expected, but they do want you to be forwarned that there are some very real risks to corresponding with a stranger, and take the liberty of enlightening you about protecting your privacy.
It is infuriating in its simplicity. It is like Dating 101 for the Impaired. It is all very cheery and they remain convinced that true love lies just around the corner, they just want you to pick a corner in a familiar, well-lit neighborhood before you go traipsing off all excited and dizzy with the possiblities.
I check that I am fully aware of the risks and dangers of talking to strangers (and hitchhiking, and running with scissors, and swimming within 20 minutes of having eaten, and putting a fork in an electrical socket). I am granted permission to proceed by the man behind the curtain.
I read Jack's email. He continues to sound very nice. Funny. Charming but not in a slick way. Appealing.
I write back. Use a little humor and charm myself.
It is admittedly weird. I know how pen pals must feel. Openly sharing with a perfect stranger.
We are both tap dancing around meeting. Jack wants to skip the phone call and go right for the date. He says since we both think there needs to be chemistry right out of the starting gate, we should dispense with the phone calls and just meet. See if my chemicals like his chemicals. Sounds gross.
No phone call? I am skeptical. He either sounds like Elmer Fudd on the phone or his voice never changed and he Peter Bradys when he speaks. But who am I kidding? I have been known to sound like I ate a box of tacks for breakfast. I have Estelle to thank for that, I am sure. So if we meet before we speak maybe there's a chance he'll be so overwhelmed with my rare beauty and not notice my voice could splinter wood. Fat chance.
We narrow our availability down to two days. I have way more than two days available but I don't want to seem like I have no social life to speak of. Eventually we pick one. I don't care. It's a week night. If I don't have a date I'll probably just mow my lawn.
We narrow it down to two locations. Both are pubs owned by the same guy and both are the same distance from my house. I just have never been to the second one. He'll have home turf advantage.
We establish a time. We're meeting at 6 pm, and I have deftly avoided having to tell him that I am not working.
Now for the outfit.
And the pedicure.
And the eyebrow wax.
And the secret code word that will tell Charlotte that if she does not call 911 at once, I will be featured on a milk carton.
Dating, new millenium style.
It is infuriating in its simplicity. It is like Dating 101 for the Impaired. It is all very cheery and they remain convinced that true love lies just around the corner, they just want you to pick a corner in a familiar, well-lit neighborhood before you go traipsing off all excited and dizzy with the possiblities.
I check that I am fully aware of the risks and dangers of talking to strangers (and hitchhiking, and running with scissors, and swimming within 20 minutes of having eaten, and putting a fork in an electrical socket). I am granted permission to proceed by the man behind the curtain.
I read Jack's email. He continues to sound very nice. Funny. Charming but not in a slick way. Appealing.
I write back. Use a little humor and charm myself.
It is admittedly weird. I know how pen pals must feel. Openly sharing with a perfect stranger.
We are both tap dancing around meeting. Jack wants to skip the phone call and go right for the date. He says since we both think there needs to be chemistry right out of the starting gate, we should dispense with the phone calls and just meet. See if my chemicals like his chemicals. Sounds gross.
No phone call? I am skeptical. He either sounds like Elmer Fudd on the phone or his voice never changed and he Peter Bradys when he speaks. But who am I kidding? I have been known to sound like I ate a box of tacks for breakfast. I have Estelle to thank for that, I am sure. So if we meet before we speak maybe there's a chance he'll be so overwhelmed with my rare beauty and not notice my voice could splinter wood. Fat chance.
We narrow our availability down to two days. I have way more than two days available but I don't want to seem like I have no social life to speak of. Eventually we pick one. I don't care. It's a week night. If I don't have a date I'll probably just mow my lawn.
We narrow it down to two locations. Both are pubs owned by the same guy and both are the same distance from my house. I just have never been to the second one. He'll have home turf advantage.
We establish a time. We're meeting at 6 pm, and I have deftly avoided having to tell him that I am not working.
Now for the outfit.
And the pedicure.
And the eyebrow wax.
And the secret code word that will tell Charlotte that if she does not call 911 at once, I will be featured on a milk carton.
Dating, new millenium style.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Show Us What's Behind Door #3, Carol Merrill
I guess Jack likes my responses and is convinced I am not a boring, sedentary sloth tipping the scales at 300 pounds, so he moves things to the next step.
The Must Haves and the Can't Stands.
He can't stand laziness. He can't stand someone overweight. He can't stand someone who chronically worries. He can't stand someone with a victim mentality. Can't stand someone who watches an inordinate amount of television.
Me either. But I have bigger fish to fry and lots of them. You can only pick 10. I have about 40 Can't Stands and only about 6 Must Haves.
His Must Haves are fairly predictable. Must have chemistry. Must have humor. Must have intellectual curiosity similar to my own. Must have a sense of financial responsibility.
I get all that but I have a philosophical argument with them being on the list at all.
Chemistry? Really? You want to spend more than an elevator ride with someone with whom you have no chemistry???? Who would NOT have that on their list besides those who are emotionally dead or unavailable?
Humor? Sweet bearded Jesus, strike me dead rather than suggest I am a perfect match for someone who is utterly without humor. I will nail myself to the cross, thank you.
Intellectual curiosity similar to my own? Safe to say I want neither an intellectual snob who will grimace when I struggle to name the first 3 elements of the Periodic Table in a game of Trivial Pursuit, nor a Neanderthal who will complain about all of my "Big Words."
Financial responsibility? Yes to Financial Responsibility. If you have a better than average chance of living in a dumpster within the next 5 years then there is no reason for us to meet. Save your date money for the rent. You can not afford to by me even one beer.
I whittle down my list of Can't Stands to 10 and try to get the most mileage out of them. I'd love to say that I can't stand someone who is a bigot. And I would like to check that I can't stand someone who is intollerant. I check instead that I can't stand someone who is mean spirited, figuring that covers a wide variety of assholes who are less than charitable toward various races, religions, sexual preferences and garden variety differences.
There are a variety of ways to say that I can't stand someone with chemical dependency of some kind. I choose the one with the broadest amount of coverage. Between Lars and his pills and J. and his closet alcoholism, I need an addict like I need a second set of boobs.
I try to cover as much acreage as possible at this stage so if the herd should be thinned it is apparent.
My bigger issue is the Must Haves. Fidelity. Honesty. Communication. These are so basic I feel like I am missing an opportunity to tell Santa what my dream house looks like by asking for the basic model. But by not checking Fidelity and Honesty and Communication what on Earth would I be saying I am signing up for?
Eventually my patience dwindles to a microgram and I just hit the send key.
And remarkably, Jack responds.
We are in a whole new stratosphere now. EHarmony email.
Lord love us and save us.
The Must Haves and the Can't Stands.
He can't stand laziness. He can't stand someone overweight. He can't stand someone who chronically worries. He can't stand someone with a victim mentality. Can't stand someone who watches an inordinate amount of television.
Me either. But I have bigger fish to fry and lots of them. You can only pick 10. I have about 40 Can't Stands and only about 6 Must Haves.
His Must Haves are fairly predictable. Must have chemistry. Must have humor. Must have intellectual curiosity similar to my own. Must have a sense of financial responsibility.
I get all that but I have a philosophical argument with them being on the list at all.
Chemistry? Really? You want to spend more than an elevator ride with someone with whom you have no chemistry???? Who would NOT have that on their list besides those who are emotionally dead or unavailable?
Humor? Sweet bearded Jesus, strike me dead rather than suggest I am a perfect match for someone who is utterly without humor. I will nail myself to the cross, thank you.
Intellectual curiosity similar to my own? Safe to say I want neither an intellectual snob who will grimace when I struggle to name the first 3 elements of the Periodic Table in a game of Trivial Pursuit, nor a Neanderthal who will complain about all of my "Big Words."
Financial responsibility? Yes to Financial Responsibility. If you have a better than average chance of living in a dumpster within the next 5 years then there is no reason for us to meet. Save your date money for the rent. You can not afford to by me even one beer.
I whittle down my list of Can't Stands to 10 and try to get the most mileage out of them. I'd love to say that I can't stand someone who is a bigot. And I would like to check that I can't stand someone who is intollerant. I check instead that I can't stand someone who is mean spirited, figuring that covers a wide variety of assholes who are less than charitable toward various races, religions, sexual preferences and garden variety differences.
There are a variety of ways to say that I can't stand someone with chemical dependency of some kind. I choose the one with the broadest amount of coverage. Between Lars and his pills and J. and his closet alcoholism, I need an addict like I need a second set of boobs.
I try to cover as much acreage as possible at this stage so if the herd should be thinned it is apparent.
My bigger issue is the Must Haves. Fidelity. Honesty. Communication. These are so basic I feel like I am missing an opportunity to tell Santa what my dream house looks like by asking for the basic model. But by not checking Fidelity and Honesty and Communication what on Earth would I be saying I am signing up for?
Eventually my patience dwindles to a microgram and I just hit the send key.
And remarkably, Jack responds.
We are in a whole new stratosphere now. EHarmony email.
Lord love us and save us.
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