Match Me Up

The Truth Hurts...so good....

2011-01-26T12:52:00.001-06:00

Something I appreciate a great deal is honesty. Brutal truth. Candor. Straight-up realism. Especially when it comes to dating. I'm a fan of not beating-around-the-bush and just coming out with what's my mind, and I expect that of my dates.

I rarely get it. It doesn't have anything to do with me, but everything to do with how some people have the inability to accept a situation for what it is and either pony-up or bow out gracefully.

Let's face it - dating is scary. And if a little white lie helps you to extricate yourself from someone or something, it's more often easier than the truth.

But truth is refreshing. It's dignified. It's fair.

So in my experience, and trust me I've got a lot in this area, there are certain phrases that are said pre/post date that you might need help decoding. Let me save you the trouble and clue you in to the difference between the lie and the truth:

Pre-Date
1. "I have a full-time job, but am in the middle of starting my own business." This is code for they work making just-above minimum wage in retail or fast-food, and are trying to launch a business with their brother-in-law doing something not really on the up-and-up.

2. "I've dated a couple women, but nothing really felt right." This is code for they've been on the site for years, have had countless first-dates, and still don't have the self-awareness to understand that it's them...

3. "Do you text?" This is code for LAZY.

Post-Date
1. "I had a great time. Talk to you soon." This is code for the date was okay, but I'm going to keep exploring my options.

2. "That was fun. Let's do it again sometime." See above.

3. "I just wanted you to know that I'm seeing a couple people at the moment, so let's see where things go." This is code for I don't think this is going to work, and I'm trying to let you down easy and get out of any future contact with you.

Next post will feature a couple tips on how to create great build-up before the first date.

New Year, New Aim

2011-01-17T12:26:00.006-06:00

So for the last six months I've been "dating" someone. I put dating in quotations because I'm not sure you can call what we've been doing dating. Long story short, I have gone along with his "let's see where it goes" subterfuge because I was really busy with school and I needed an outlet to save my sanity. So I tucked my ego in my pocket and went along for the ride.

School's over. And so is this.

I could pick apart this person but the simple fact is, I was a willing participant and a somewhat apathetic one at that so I must shoulder some of the responsibility.

But that's all in the past. Things kind of came to a head this weekend, with one of those oh-so-painful lightening bolt realizations. Gotta love 'em.

On to better things.

I have a plan. If on June 1st I'm still single, I will entertain the idea of joining Match.com AGAIN, but this time I will come better prepared.

In the meantime, I'm going to reach back from the summer and start telling those online dating stories. I have some doozies. Prepare to check back in soon. And by soon I mean this week.

Good to be back - ttfn.

Kristin

Verbosity

2010-06-16T13:13:00.007-05:00

One of the most difficult things on a first date is the conversation. If your skills are lacking, you might not get a second chance to make that first impression. Part of the conversation should include humor.

This is where things can get tricky.

Sometimes, what you find to be funny others will find horrific, and vice versa.

Case in point - I had a first date with a fellow, let's call him Jude. We met at the Red Lion, one of my favorite spots, and he was a looker, nice voice, attentive. He had a couple kids, and started to talk about them and his ex. And then he cracked a couple jokes about his ex, related to how she took care of the kids. So not funny. Don't bash the ex on the first date - try not to bash the ex at all. Stay positive, kids, as it only reflects better on you.

Needless to say, Jude was history.

I'm not one to point fingers and claim innocence - I've had my fair share of verbal idiocies.

Recently, I went out with a really nice fellow, UK Dave. We had a great time, really great, but I didn't check myself and had one too many Schlafly Pale Ale's.

I NEVER have more than two drinks on a first date. NEVER. FOR THIS VERY REASON. It's a rule. So why did I then? Who knows - perhaps an immediate need for liquid courage because this guy was (I thought) the bees knees?

Either way, I was feeling loose and happy, and decided to tell what I thought was a HILARIOUS story about my friend attempting humor using the "did you know you can get head or neck cancer from oral sex" story as a meeting icebreaker.

I think it was a little TMI for my date. No, I know it was TMI, because the shift in room temperature was palpable, and considering we were sitting outside on a warm summer night, that's saying something.

Sadly, I didn't hear from him again.

So is the moral of this post that when attempting humor on a first date, save your TRUE sense of humor for later on in the relationship? I don't think so. I believe you can sprinkle bits of your biting, sarcastic and eclectic humor in with a moderate mix of reserve. Staying true to who you are is important, but so is getting off on the right foot. It's a fine line...

I have to say, it's refreshing when you meet someone who shares your sense of humor - however naughty, irreverent, goofy or seemingly racist it is. Not only refreshing, but it can give you hope that you're not the only person out there with a bent for non-PC humor. And you know who you are......

I'll end this post with a few rules for first-date behavior tips:
1. Don't bash the ex
2. Limit your alcohol intake, or space it out (sip, people, sip)
3. Table the oral sex talk for later

It's funny...

2010-06-10T12:24:00.009-05:00

A couple of months ago I had decided to get back in the online dating saddle. School was letting up, Spring was here, and my friend M was on Match and enjoying herself. So, I thought, "What the hell".

I signed up for a month.

It was an interesting month, to say the least. Since my weirdo radar was honed to a T from my Match-time years ago, I was been able to dodge the creepos in person. That's not to say I didn't receive a fair share of scuzzy messages (of which I didn't take the time to respond). But I didn't let them take up my time or bother me.

Close to when my month term was about to expire, I was talking with a few people, and decided to not renew in hopes of a potential match with one of them.

Unfortunately, nothing came to fruition for various reasons I won't disclose for anonymities sake. What I did end up with was a better understanding of what I am looking for in my life re: a relationship & partner.

I signed up again and got a sweet deal on a 3-month package. So far, so good. People will always have their hang-ups, their idiosyncracies, their quirks. The only control I have is how I react to them, and whether or not I will accept them.

I am toying with the idea of changing up this blog a bit. Since I am doing my best NOT to waste my time on the weirdness, it might be fun to explore any and all things related to dating - the good, the bad, the dirty. I'm no expert, but since I'm all about psychology, this is right up my alley.

Some topics to explore:

1. Can an old friend become a new boyfriend? Or is the history too much to overcome?

2. Resurrecting old flames - flash and burn or consistent heat?

3. Is there a hard and fast rule about when to drop the knickers?

4. Kids, no kids, ready-made family - proceed with caution.

So, if I have any readers left after a lengthy absence, stay tuned for some quirky, idiosyncratic insight regarding dating at the ripe old age of 30-something.

My Very Own Pearl Harbor

2010-03-01T16:36:00.005-06:00

I’ve had interesting dates over the years, but this is the most interesting “second” date I’ve had. I can also categorize it as the most interesting “second/last” date.

Let me tell you a bit about Kentin, or Kent as he liked to be called. He was a good looking chap – half Japanese, half Irish, tall enough, and an ophthalmologist. He was long-separated, on his way to a d-i-v-o-r-c-e, and ready to get back into the game.

My first date with Kent went well – we had an easy dinner at El Magooey (that’s El Maguey) and then popped over to the Tivoli to see a movie. He was a little touchy-feely, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Not disrespectful in any way, so I was nonplussed. (finally got to use nonplussed – milestone completed).

We parted ways sweetly, with him bringing up a future meeting. He called the next day and we made plans for me to head on over to his place for dinner.

Now, normally my rule was to wait at least five dates before a house meeting. Usually that meant a probable hooking-up, and by date five that’s okay - not sex per se. But, after one date I was feeling it – I wanted to get a peek into what made him tick, and the fastest way is to see the humble abode.

Oh. Humble it was not.

I headed out to Cottleville, which is BFE St. Charles, and pulled up to an older apartment community – you know the kind: chateau-style, two story in the round with outdoor parking and entrance from outside (no hallways). I immediately was wary, but then thought about his impending divorce and that he’s probably in-between places. No prob, no judgement. I soldiered on.

As I was getting out of my car, out of the corner of my eye I spied movement. It was Kent. He was getting out of his car, gym bag in hand, workout gear on. WTF? Did we not have a date? Or did I get the time wrong?

He said, nonchalantly, that he had a long workout, and why don’t I hang out for 10 minutes while he showered and then we could get dinner going. Umm, okay. So we walked up to his second-floor apartment and he opened the door.

Holy crap. Immediate flashbacks of my college-boyfriend’s apartment (I was in high school then, and VERY innocent...heh heh).

It was a hole. Soo messy. A definite bachelor pad by all accounts. His big screen tv was resting on milkcrates (?) and his dvd collection was lined up on the floor. He had a mess of papers on the kitchen table, and food containers strewn about. Then I spied with my little eye a most captivating figurine…..of a dwarf flipping me off. Classy. Ron Burgundy classy.

I knew I was in trouble.

Kent jumped in the shower, leaving me to fend for myself in the pit living room. (He did leave the bathroom door cracked, perhaps his way of inviting me to join him? Didn’t happen.)

He finished, and then we talked about dinner. He told me what he could cook, or if none of the choices sounded good we could order in Thai. I, of course, opted for Thai – nothing in that kitchen resembled anything edible, and the cleanliness was beyond questionable.

As we waited for the Thai, he and I tried to decide on what to watch. He choose Predator. OMG. A sign of things to come…for sure. I relented, as I was pretty sure I wouldn’t stick around to finish the flick. Foreshadowing…

So, we ate, and then settled in for the movie. Things moved pretty quickly at that point. Groping, grabbing, an invitation to “do it”. Seriously – who talks like that anymore? I begged off his steady advances, and my polite North Dakota nature was slowly dissipating, turning into disgust. I could no longer disguise that I wasn’t enjoying my evening. He, dejected, excused himself to use the restroom.

As soon as he shut the door, I made my move.

As quickly as I could, I grabbed my purse and BOLTED out of the apartment like it was in flames. I’m pretty sure I took two steps at once, landed like a stealthy leopard on the main floor and raced to my car. I heard Kent behind me calling “Hey…hey!”. I didn’t care. As I backed out of my parking space, doors locked, I caught a glimpse of him in my rearview mirror. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was a mess. I couldn’t forgive one for the other. He was a lost cause in my book.

After a few emails, he stopped trying to apologize and left me alone. I didn’t think I’d see or hear from him again.

Guess what? Kent reappeared in the most random of ways the other day.

My friend Mary, who is dating via Match, was telling me about a nice Asian/American man she met who lived in St. Charles.

I asked her his name.

She said Kentin.

!!!!

I then quizzed her on a few things – is he an eye doctor? Divorced? Irish father, Japanese mother? Works an hour away from where he lives? Goatee?

She was amazed at how much I knew about Kentin.

So the million dollar question – did I tell her about our last date?

Oh, you bet I did.

But it’s been a couple of years since then, so he might have changed. Might being the operative word.

Did she go out with him? Not yet. If she does, I’ll hope for the best. And will expect a good story. 

Had You Been Irish, Maybe....

2009-05-11T15:04:00.007-05:00

This is another recent experience, and it made it all the way into the "potential-relationship" category. However, it had a very dismal end. Cataclysmic. A 6.5 on the Richter scale. Sunami-like. Okay, are you getting the picture? It was B-A-D. Keep reading....

I started IM'ing with Benjamin Kaminski in the Fall. We elected to keep the chatting up to see if we really were in-tune with each other. Benjamin was nice - there's really no other word to describe him at that time in our getting-to-know-ya phase. Just plain nice. He asked all the right questions, had witty answers, and was sharp.

We would IM at all hours of the day - typically first thing in the morning before our work days got too hectic, and then close up shop in the evening before one of us hit the hay. We threw in some phone calls, and then they started to talk over the IM, which I guess is a normal progression in this age of electronic foreplay?

One thing I noticed right away was the peculiarity of his voicemail message. Not what it said, but how his voice sounded. Almost childlike. "You've reached the voicemail of Beenjamin Kameeeenskiii". Like the tonal depth of his speech hadn't progressed past his 12th birthday. I then began to notice than this kind of "eeee" crept in to other words during phone conversations. "Leetle" instead of little and "beeeen" instead of "been". Just to clarify, he didn't sound like Antonio Banderas, but rather like a little kid. Sometimes. Which was weird. But I decided it was inconsequential, and pressed on. (Hint: this is called FORESHADOWING......)

We moved on from the phone to scheduling an actual date. We liked a lot of the same things, such as The Flaming Lips, certain local hangouts, seasons, etc., so he proposed that we meet at the Flamingo Bowl which was on both of our lists - it's comfortable and would be über-casual, so I was down.

Beenjamin had a couple pics posted on his eHarmony page, all very different. One was in b&w, and he looked like a handsome, dark and tall Irishman. Another was a very fuzzy picture of someone kneeling in the snow very far away - really, it could have been anyone. The third was someone hugging a German Shepherd, and you could only see his eyes. They looked like Beenjamin's eyes, but I couldn't really tell.

Now, before I go any further, let's talk about cyberdating photos. In my experience, there are a variety of ways that men like to portray themselves using photos on these cyber-dating sites. I've categorized them as follows:

1. Rico Suave - these guys usually post 10+ pictures of themselves in various party modes, usually surrounded by women (the courteous ones black out the faces), and at least one picture has the guy wearing the Mardi Gras jester hat, beaded up.

2. IronMan - this type includes pictures of himself in athletic endeavors, such as climbing, deep-sea fishing, rugby, hiking, white-water rafting, etc. Like that's all he does - not a lot of depth.

3. Dad - they have pictures of their kids, which I find to be okay, as long as it's not overkill.

4. Sad Guy - this guy has a few pictures, but they are usually out of focus, from a long time ago, or part of them is obscured.

5. Player - this guy couldn't be bothered to take the time to post more than one picture, and they're usually trolling for booty.

6. Jonesy - I like this guy. He is particular in how he represents himself - he has a variety of pictures that are recent, modestly revealing, and sans ex-girlfriend or ex-wife. Maybe kids. Maybe a dog or two, which I love.

So, I was thinking that Beenjamin was Sad Guy, considering his choice of pics.

Was I right? Read on...

I headed down to the Flamingo Bowl at the predetermined time, walked in the door, and spotted Been right away. He was perched on a stool at one of the small tables between the door and the pool table. He had on a long wool overcoat, so I guessed he had just gotten there. I walked over, and when he saw me he smiled this huge smile and stood up.

Been was not tall. Not as tall as he said he was in his profile - unless I had shrunk. I'm 5'8, and was wearing flats. He was supposed to be 5'11, but I was taller than he was. Come ON!! Do these guys think we'll not realize their true height?

I decided to go with it, and we ended up having a very nice time. I was actually surprised. I decided to forgive his height indiscretion, and see where this thing could go.

We had a couple more dates, usually meeting somewhere for dinner or to see a band. I got to know his history - he was raised in St. Louis, moved to Denver after college, worked in Social Services, and then his mom died. Since his dad had passed away early in his life, it was just him, his two sisters and his mom. From what I gathered, it was a difficult situation, and he was still getting over it. This was six years ago.

I understand the grieving process is different for everyone. But I would think that in six years, things get better. I was getting the feeling that time has stopped. He admitted that he lost some time that first year, and was trying to regain his footing ever since.

I am over attempting to fix people. While I am working on my Master's in Psychotherapy, I've got no time for broken people in my romantic life. I am seeking someone who is FDA - focused, driven, active. Like me. That may sound harsh, but I've gone that route many times, and I'm done.

Throughout our conversations, I had sensed that he didn't have what you might call a 5-year or 10-year plan. He was a salesman, and seemed to be kind of floating out there in the world, making ends meet, but that's the extent of his drive.
Well, with this new admittance I was immediately on the offensive.

He had been to my place a couple of times, and I decided that I needed to see where Been lived. That tells you a lot about someone. For an example, my place is very open, lots of windows and light (I paint and write), it's clean but sometimes messy, and I've been told it's a very comfortable space. That translates to open, positive, genuine, creative, project-driven, and comfortable.

We had made plans to see a movie at Webster University, and I told him (no negotiatin here), that I would pick him up. He said that was fine, and I made sure I was right on time. I got out of the car, and he was coming out of the door. I asked him if could use his restroom (ha), and he, a little grudgingly, said I could.

I followed him into his place. I immediately regretted my choice of shoes - instead of my posh kicks, I should have worn either my Merrell cross-trainers or my Hunter wading boots.

I kid you not - the place didn't have a floor. Newspaper, albums, notebooks, clothes...that was the floor. It was like a DMZ in the middle of Richmond Heights. There were about eight guitars lined up on the opposite wall, junk posters on the walls, a desk piled hight with who-knows-what. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move, but was smart enough not to allow myself to investigate that further. As I walked to where he said the bathroom was (another dimension), I passed by the kitchen. Oh good lord. Sweet Jeebus. His kitchen made the living room look like Martha Stewart was his roommate.

I think it was at this point I actually shivered from disgust.

In college, I dated someone (who later became my husband) who didn't mind living in squalor. He was very earthy-crunchy, bohemian in the grandest of terms, and even though he was messy, his place never once stooped to this level.

I managed to shuffle through the layers of crap on the floor and made it to the bathroom. I shut the door behind me, and stood there in the dark. I was NOT going to turn the light on. WAS NOT. I didn't think I could take it. So I counted to 15, and left the bathroom.

As I walked back to the living room, I saw Beenjamin standing by the front door, all smiles. I swear to you, it looked as if he was actually happy I had come in. Like he was proud or something.

I can only assume that his place looked like an abandoned building because he hadn't yet recovered from his mom's passing. Perhaps depression. And if that's the case, I feel for the guy, but HE HAD NO BUSINESS DATING. His life was in shambles, and he doesn't have the emotional stability or wherewithal to contribute fully to a relationship. Period. So now I'm pissed off, because he made me like him, and he wasted my time. And you can't get back time.

I mumbled a thanks, and I drove us to Webster. He had brought along a bootleg copy of some Lips show from a few years back, and was blathering on about this and that. I tried to follow along, but what I was attempting to formulate was my escape plan.

When we reached Webster, it looked ominously deserted. We parked, went inside, and saw on the small marquee that we were two hours early. Golden!! An excuse to bail!!

Not so fast.

Beenjamin suggested we hit up a local pool parlor for a beer and a game to pass the time. I was about to object, but realized that THIS was actually my golden opportunity.

Off we went.

About midway through the second game and my first beer, I let him know that I had a terrible headache. Since he had chronic back/neck problems, I knew he would be sensitive to my "plight". I begged off another game, and told him I should head home.

I pulled up in front of his place, and managed to avoid a proper goodnight. I almost peeled out when I drove off. I couldn't get away fast enough.

We had made plans to go see the Blues first game of the season - he had scored some decent seats, and I love me some hockey. But I don't love it THAT much. I text messaged him (yup - this situation called for the most minimal and impersonal contact available) and declined the invitation.

I received a text message back asking me if it was because I still had a headache.

I never responded.

Mean? I don't think so. Again, I'm not looking to fix anyone, and I have no inclination to point out the obvious. But, had he been a true Irishman, this tale could have had a happy ending...I'm a sucker for a U.K. accent...

Some Things Are Lost In Translation...

2009-05-03T19:37:00.005-05:00

I was on eHarmony a while back, which was a completely different experience from Match.com. The 500 matching points of light is a ridiculous premise, and by the time you get through all of the steps in the matching-up process, both parties are usually too tired to give a gosh darn.

I liken eHarmony to a sit-down formal pre-fixe dinner, where you don't have much of a choice, can't skip ahead to the main course, and by the time dessert rolls around, you're sleepy and uninterested. Match is really where it's at - the buffet of love (or lust, if that's what you're hankerin' for).

I had been going through the kajillion steps with Arvin (from India), and we actually made it to the "Open Communication" level. Amazing - he hadn't dropped off, and neither had I. Staying power is a turn on.

His command of the English language, both written and spoken, was pretty good, and we talked about business, politics, life goals, etc. He was a programmer (weird, huh?) for a local beverage giant, and a recent transplant to St. Louis, but not America.

We decided to go out for dinner, and since he didn't get out much he asked me to chose a restaurant. He admitted that his diet consisted of mainly Subway, because he didn't like dining alone. His only requirement was that the venue had to have a 5-star rating. Not a problem - I chose Modesto, because of the lively atmosphere, the great selection of tapas, and it was fare that Arvin hadn't experienced before but was more than willing to branch out. More points for him - adventurous.

I set aside my "meet you there" rule as Arvin seemed very confused with directions, and he was really insistent that he squire me on our first date. He picked me up, and was a gentleman from the start. He had a nice ride, was sporting the Brooks Brothers, and had impeccable manners. Not a must in my book, but nice to have.

We had a great conversation on the way to dinner, and once we got there, the talking didn't cease. And it wasn't rambling - there was substance, thought, wit! There wasn't a topic that seemed off limits, and he had a positive outlook about most everything. Refreshing and fun!

After a couple sangrias and tapas plates, we decided to move on to Baileys for an after-dinner drink and more talking. It was turning out to be a really nice evening, much to my surprise.

We parked, walked over to Baileys, and it was so jammed we weren't getting in the front door anytime soon. At that point, I was getting a little tired, and suggested to Arvin we call it a night - hey, we'd been doing so well, why spoil it?

As we were walking back to his car, he put his arm around my shoulders, really tight. Like, uncomfortably tight. Tight enough that it was difficult for me to walk normally. Where was this coming from? Maybe the wine? Up until now, he'd been strictly hands-off, which was fine by me. It takes me a little time to warm up to someone. I'm more of the instigator.

We got to his car, and before he opened the passenger door, he rushed in - yep, not leaned in casually or seductively, this was a move that Kurt Warner would be proud of - and kissed me.

Now, to put this kiss into it's proper context, one must conjure up those black & white movies from the 1940's...you know, the ones where the kissing looks downright painful. Take the kiss between George Bailey and Mary in It's A Wonderful Life - the one that happens in her parlor when they get finished talking to Sam Wainright and realize they love each other. Such a great scene - full of passion, a great buildup, with the exception of the sucky kiss.

And I got that same big ol' face mash.

Lips CLOSED, no movement at all, just two people super-glued together in the face.

Let me say again. LIPS CLOSED. And his head was not moving. No movement whatsoever. Like we were two mannequins.

So completely weird.

I didn't know people still kissed this way. Apparently, some do.

Not me.

Seriously, his face was pushing into mine so hard, it was covering up both my mouth and nose.

I could not breathe. It was more than a little uncomfortable - it was a little scary.

So now I'm felt deflated. Such a nice night. Such a nice guy. Such a B-A-D kisser.

And I was too old to teach someone how to kiss. I actually tried to in a previous relationship, and he never got any better, so I ended up avoiding kissing him, and it just spiraled downhill from there. I think the perfect kiss almost mirrors how you would eat an ice cream cone - using your lips and tongue, not just one or the other. Continuous movement - like you're tasting over and over. Yum.

I don't know how, but I ended up extricating myself from the facelock from hell, and managed to get into the car.

We talked on the ride home, but it was halfhearted on my end. I had already checked out. This wasn't going any further.

When we got to my place, I could tell he was about to attempt it again. A girl just knows these things - that look in his eyes, so hopeful.

I put my hand out for him to shake. Surely he would regain his manners and accept this as a goodnight gesture, right?

He did. But then he asked for a goodnight kiss.

I had to be honest. I told him that I never kissed on the first date. It was a rule. He didn't need to know that sometimes I broke my own rule, when it was in my best interest. He was not in my best interest.

He began to argue that we had just shared a very hot kiss (??? What????) just a few minutes ago. So I told him he could count that as his goodnight kiss, and left it at that.

He offered to walk me to the door. I declined. I could not risk it - not sure if anyone was around to perform CPR if I needed to recover from another kiss.

I didn't see him again, but I hope that he finds someone out there who can handle his liplock - or at least has the time to correct it.

Say Hello To My Leetle Friend....Pt 2

2009-04-26T13:09:00.006-05:00

So where were we? Oh yeah...side street.

As we had gotten closer to our destination, he had started to really lay on the charm - he had a better time than he thought he would, wanted to take me out again, that kind of thing. Which seemed normal for the close of what I thought to be a spectacular first date.

Ha. He was paving the way for what came next.

We had pulled up to a dark sidestreet that was two blocks away from Riddles, and he brought the car up close to the curb. There was a Middle Eastern deli there, but it was closed, and there wasn't any foot traffic nearby.

Deserted.

I knew exactly where we were, so I wasn't really scared, more bewildered as to why he was parking here. I thought that becauseI didn't tell him where I parked, maybe this was his way of getting as close to the restaurant as possible for my comfort level.

Or maybe he didn't want to say goodbye in front of a bunch of people - going for the more romantic farewell.

Or maybe not.

It's funny how what feels like a million thoughts can run through your mind in the span of 3 seconds. That's the approximate time it took from when we pulled onto the street to what happened next.

I had 3 final seconds of serenity and hopefullness, before he asked:

"Do you want to watch?"

That's what I heard him say. Did I want to watch what? What is there to watch in a parked car on a dark street?

I looked over at him, with I'm sure what must have been a confounded look on my face, and then I noticed movement. Down below.

So, with the Klem incident fresh in my mind, I hoped and pleaded with the powers above that Dart was also of the Greek persuasion, and maybe wanted to show me his extra-special beads. Maybe they were multi-colored, tricked-out beads. One of a kind, rarities that he wanted to share.

No such luck.

He wasn't working on beads.

But he was working it. Working the frank and beans.

It was one of those sights that you can't really believe you saw, and think about glancing at again to make sure it was real but only through peeking out from behind the hand that now covers your eyes out of repulsion and surprise.

It's my opinion that junk all by itself isn't pretty. It's all out of context, doesn't look like it belongs, and seems very alien. It's jarring. Really. Jarring.

I tore my eyes away. For the next two seconds, I sat there. What to do? We'd had a really good time, he was beyond eye-candy, and througout the evening I had found myself thinking about second and third dates with him, what we could do, what our firstborn would look like.

I figured I had two options.

Option 1: Sit there, pleasantly decline the "watch" part, wait for him to finish, and attempt to leave the evening on a high note, with the possibility of a second date in our future. Seriously, this was an option I provided myself with in the span of two seconds, as ridiculous as it sounds. When you're put into such a situation, the absurdity encompasses everything associated with it, and clear thinking is obsolete.

Option 2: Excuse myself from the vehicle, walk (run?) half a block to civilization, head to the nearest bar for liquid salvation and call my girlfriend to have her pick me up (I'd get my car later).

I chose a modified version of Option 2. Well, I don't know that I actively chose it, it may have chosen me. Because I'm not sure I was fully conscious of what I was doing. Fight or flight - I had to get out.

I remember that I may have mumbled an apology of sorts so that I could just get the hell out of the car. Apologize for what, you've got me, but it seemed the most benign thing to do so as to not make him mad.

I remember feeling the soft buttery richness of the leather seat covering as I pushed against it for faster extrication from the freakmobile.

I remember feeling the cool Indian Summer air hit my face and legs as I left the cool interior of his Show-Me car behind.

I remember attempting to walk in a confident manner to the main drag, but couldn't help feeling the urge to make a mad dash for a crowd.

I somehow made it two blocks, took a seat outdoors at a nearby restaurant, and called my friend. I had told her about my date before I left, and she picked up the phone immediately as she thought she'd be getting an earful of juicy details.

These weren't the juicy details she was looking to hear. Being the gal pal that she is, she was soon sitting across from me, sharing a beer and being a great shoulder.

We ended up laughing about it by the time our last beer had come and gone, and she drove me to my car and I headed the short distance home. I felt a lot better, and just chalked this experience up to more fodder for fantastic storytelling.

I did receive a really nice email from Dart, an apology of sorts. And an invitation to go out again. In my mumbled apology, I must have said something that made him think it was okay to keep in touch.

I emailed him back, and told him it would be best if he only kept in touch with himself.

Say Hello To My Leetle Friend....Pt 1

2009-04-22T06:41:00.014-05:00

Well, I got a lot of feedback on my last post. Most of it fairly negative, with the general consensus being that I'd led my readers on. Teased them. Didn't deliver.

Dear readers: these are my experiences, some of them funny, some dirty, some sad, but all of them are true. I do my best to entertain while spilling my very personal histories into cyberspace. I can't help it if they don't all contain hamsters or trouser snakes. Deal with it. (and no, E, I am not calling you out, others wanted trouser snakes as well).

On to my next encounter....

I was still in the game. Ready for whatever came next - because with my newfound knowledge of how crude, "different" and seemingly perfect a guy can be, they most always surprise you in the end and now I had more than enough wrenches in my emotional toolbox to handle anything that came my way.

Or so I thought.

Up next - D'Artagnon. We'll call him Dart for short.

Dart contacted me, and upon reading his stats, I couldn't wait to meet him.

Just from his photos, I could tell the brother had it goin' on with somethin' kinda...uh wicked, wicked....oops, sorry, had to channel a little Salt-N-Pepa for a second.

Back to the stats - he was a big dog in the investment industry, tall, nice shock of dark hair, athletic but not obsessed with sports, owned a dog, lived in a decent part of town, and never married/no kids. Dream guy!! Oh yeah, and he could write very well also. His bio showed a great sense of humor, wit, and intelligence.

I responded to his mail, and he rang me up that same evening. He-he-hello! We had too much in common - we both liked U2's early stuff, enjoyed watching sports live rather than on television, were big biking freaks, and loved to camp. We had an easy rapport on the phone, jawed on for hours, and decided to meet on Friday night at one of our favorite restaurants, Riddles.

Friday night came along, I was sweating my outfit - was it too revealing, not revealing enough? Boobage, no boobage? Was casual the way to go? Heels, no heels? Yeah, I was in a girly mode and had a difficult time shaking off the indecisiveness. I went with a cute flirty skirt, stylish halter, and a hip cardigan to top off the outfit. And since he was a tall drink of water, I went with the heels. Had to meet him halfway for that goodnight peck, right?

Now, you know I don't usually get into the frilly stuff, but these are important details which will come into play later on in the story. So, thanks in advance for suffering through that.

Back to the story...it's Friday, and I made the short drive down to the Loop to meet with Dart. One final check in the rearview mirror, and I was good to go. I walked in the door, and saw him standing by the hostess.

Wowee. Ding ding ding. Had my eyes been a slot machine, I would have had triple bars.

Dart was everything he claimed to be in his profile, and more. I could gush at this point, or spare you the details and just say that this man was a MAN. Yup. M-A-N.

We were escorted to the back of the place, where Pauly would sit were this a mafia hangout, and seated on the riser level that had tables for two. We had a good view of the restaurant, and everyone had a good view of us. I felt on top of the world. Literally. And figuratively.

Throughout our tasty dinner, the conversation never lulled. Good talk, good food, good lookin' dinner date. I pinched myself under the table many a time, amazed at my good fortune. Worked up quite the bruise, but I didn't care. I figured I had to wade through the Match muck to pay my dating dues before I got to the perfect pairing.

We finished dinner, and he asked if I wanted to grab a drink somewhere. I felt a bit heady at that point, what with the wine we finished off during dinner. I said I would be up for a coffee, hoping it didn't turn him off. He was more than fine with it, and suggested we head over to another part of town close by where there was a coffee place we both liked (it had come up in conversation). He offered to drive, and I guess the alcohol had dulled my adherence to my hard and fast dating rule of "never get into a car on the first date", and I accepted.

We jetted of to said coffehouse, and settled in for some java and convo. Again, no lull, no weird topics, nothing too intimate or intrusive. Everything was on the level. It was all just right.

More pinching, in a new place now as my initial bruise was too tender to keep pinching.

It was about an hour before we finished our coffee, and it was getting late. I told him a had an early ride, and he said he'd get Cinderella home on time. Cool.

Well, it was cool for about 10 minutes. Until we got close to the restaurant and he turned down a side street.....

_________________________________________________________________

What's That In Your Pocket??? Finale

2009-04-20T21:43:00.005-05:00

So where were we?

Oh, yeah.

The pocket rocket was about to take off.

So there I am, preparing myself for God-knows-what. And how does one prepare for the shock of the century?

Some would say, just breathe.

Not me.

I say...you hold your breath.

I let my gaze ball, er, fall back to his kahki pants pocket. I noticed that his sleeve was slowly exiting said pocket, ever so slowly.

Oh jeez. Can I take what's in the hand at the end of that sleeve?

Not sure. But I was getting light-headed in my attempt.

All of a sudden, something flashed. Well, twinkled is more like it.

What????

This is what Klem pulled out of his pants.

Jewelry.

Man jewelry.

Weird, shiny man jewelry.

Weird, shiny, Greek man jewelry.

To be precise, Komboloi. Greek worry beads.

And why would Klem have Greek worry beads in his pocket?

Because his name is really Klemen, which is a traditional Greek name, given to him by his traditional Greek parents, who want their traditionally Greek spawn to enter the priesthood.

!!!!!!!!!!

That's what all this "last chance" nonsense was all about. He had been attempting to find someone who he felt comfortable enough with so he could take them home to ma and pa and get out of entering Concordia, the local seminary.

And the worry beads were his way of dealing with the pressure.

COME ON!

So as he was telling me his troubled story, I knew that someday I would have my own story to tell about this night. And I would tell it proper.

So, suffice it to say we did not make a match. I'm not sure whatever became of nervous Klem - perhaps he did find a gal who could hang with the beads. Maybe he became a priest. I guess I could google him to find out for sure.

But for now, I prefer to remember him from that night. The strange man with a party in his pocket.

What's that in your pocket??? Pt 2

2009-04-18T10:50:00.006-05:00

When I last left off, the door to Starbucks had opened....and guess what?

In walked Klem. Looking nervous as hell.

Now, he looked exactly like his Match photo - which wasn't bad. He walked over to me, not really making eye contact, and we shook hands. Clammy palm. Yup...he was nervous.

He sat down in the oversized puffy chair that was next to me. I asked him if he wanted something to drink, he said he was too nervous to drink or eat in front of me.

Yikes. I was kind of feeling sorry for the guy. He wasn't bad looking at all, and I'm no Gisele, so what's the problem??

He launched into a whole story about joining Match in a last ditch effort, but never really explained what that meant. He focused on how he'd winked and written to many women, but when he'd gotten responses and they'd wanted to meet, he just couldn't get up the gumption (his word, not mine) to actually meet them in person. But since time was running out, he felt like I was his last chance. Last chance????

Now I'm thinking, is he moving to another country? Dying? Sex change?? What's this "last chance" stuff all about?

While I'm going over possible scenarios in my head, movement catches my eye.

Oh gosh. Oh my gosh. Is it...? Um, what is tha.....?

What fresh hell is this?

I notice that his hand is deep in his front pants pocket, and it's moving around. And when I say moving, I mean REALLY moving.

Like he's pickin-on-the-banjo moving.

Like there's-a-furry-critter-in-there-he's-trying-to-pet moving.

All the while, he's talking away, as if there's nothing unusual going down in his kahkis.

So now, I've fallen into a pants-trance, and can't focus on anything he's saying as I'm watching the pocket show. And mind you - it was a show.

I guess he noticed that he'd lost my attention, and the pocket motion stopped. Jolted out of my trance, I looked up at him. He was looking at me in a very weird way. I was suddenly glad we were in a very public place with hot liquid, in case I had to defend myself.

He said, "Do you want to know what's in my pocket?"

Okay, how do I answer this? Um yeah, I kind of want to know what all of the commotion was about, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's not something I really want to SEE, you know? See my former reference to the furry critter...

Since I signed up for the freakshow, I say to Klem, "Sure."

I was SO not prepared for what happened next.

What's that in your pocket??? Pt I

2009-04-16T13:10:00.004-05:00

I've been through the ringer. Lied to, dissed, dismissed, and did some dismissing of my own.

Time to change up my gameplan a bit.

Time to be bold. Daring. Unconventional.

Try something new.

I got online, daring myself to click on the pics that weren't making me breathe heavy. Read through the profile. If there was something that screamed "uptight" or "boring" or even if there wasn't much to read, these were the guys I was going after.

Because maybe who I think is a good match for me isn't, and the opposite is true.

I sent winks to a Todd. A Sean. A George.

And a Klem.

Ding ding ding. A winner.

Klem got back to me that same night. Woot. He wanted to talk. I forwarded my number. An hour later we're on the phone.

Now, his picture was okay. Nothing special. Dark hair, good smile. Looked stocky, portly even. Short "about me", stats were in line. He didn't put down an occupation, so coupling the name with the visual aid, I assumed Klem was a farmer. Isn't Klem a country name?

We had a short conversation, during which he didn't offer up his occupation nor did I ask. Surprise me, I thought. I'm open to newness.

We decided to meet at Starbucks in U-City the next evening. Yeah. I could use a Caramel Macchiato, sink down into one of the oversized puffy chairs and revel in the newness.

Fast forward to the next night. I walk into Starbucks, scan the small space and don't see anyone who looks like Klem's photo. Cool. I can grab my drink, stake my claim and settle in, and be all comfortable and cozy by the time he shows up.

I do just that. It's a slow night, so I'm deep into my chair and drink, reveling in the breeze of cool autumn air that drifts in whenever anyone opens the front door. A little bit of heaven.

Five minutes pass. Ten. Twenty. Okay, I'm done with my macchiato and it's been a half hour now, still no Klem.

Stood up, I think. Damn. Well, not one to waste an opportunity, I get out my notebook I tote around and start writing, and order up a second beverage.

My phone rings.

Klem.

The conversations goes a little....like.....this:

Me: "Hello?"

Klem: "Hi, it's Klem."

Me: "Hi Klem. Is everything alright? I thought we were supposed to meet a half hour ago."

Klem: "I'm so sorry. I've been driving around the block."

Me: "Okay....can you not find parking? There's a lot out back."

Klem: "No, that's not the problem."

Me: "What's wrong?"

Klem: "Are you sitting by the window? In the green sweater?"

Me: "Yes. Why?" Oh, dear lord, WTF???

Klem: "You're going to think I'm a freak. You're too pretty. For me."

Okay, so either he saw me and didn't think I was his type and this was a true blow off, or he's telling the truth. And if he's telling the truth, I can't take someone who is this insecure.

Me: "Oh, you're funny. That's nice of you to say, but don't you think we should meet in person before either of us decides it's not meant to be? Why don't you come in for a little bit? It's pretty empty in here, we'll have the place to ourselves."

Klem: "Okay, but please don't think I'm a freak."

Aw jeez. I already do....I'm just curious to see how much of a freak you are...so get your ass in here!

I mean, how bad can it be???

I hang up the phone, pick up my second drink, settle back in, and am now very eagerly awaiting what's about to walk through the door............

Well, the door opens.

And guess what????

Oh, Gramps.

2009-04-02T19:35:00.008-05:00

So, I am now up to date #3 with Gramps. In addition to having spent two very interesting and fun dates with him, we'd been emailing and talking on the phone, so I'd gotten to know him a bit better.

And guess what?

No weirdness. No odd habits, or hobbies. Well, aside from the German thing. And that I could live with.

Could it be real? Could he be....could he be normal?

Pinch me, I thought. I think this may really happen. He may get in the door tonight.

And you know what that means:

My place is tidy, the wine is chilled, and my batteries could use a rest.

Bring. It. On.

But....before I go there, let me refresh your memory. Remember? I had created a few rules that had to be met before a man could cross my threshold at the end of Date #3:

1. Three dates, one of which I planned and paid for and he was okay with that
2. He tells me where he grew up and about his family
3. Drivers license check
4. Thumbs up from a friend

By all accounts, he'd passed 2-4. Flying colors. The only one left was my getting to plan and execute a date of my choosing. Small hurdle. Very scalable.

So.

Here's how it went down.

It's Friday morning, and we're chatting about the weekend while we're both at work. He's talking about taking pictures on Saturday, the weather looks good, somewhere in the country, yadda yadda. I can't keep silent. I'm all excited, and interrupt him with my idea of taking him out on that night. I go on about how much fun we'll have, it's my turn to treat. I finish, waiting to hear his delight.

Silence. Crickets. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots.

Nothing.

So I say, "Hello? Gramps? Did I lose you?"

He says, "No, I'm here. Why do you want to take me out?"

So I tell him that I think dating should be a two-way street in terms of getting to plan, paying, contributing. I tell him I feel more comfortable with that, and it's something I want to do.

He asks me if I feel like I need to pony up to make sure that I don't feel the need to "owe" him.

Huh? Didn't expect this. I'm feeling deflated suddenly. Why can't he just have said, "Sounds good" or "I'd like that"?

I answer that I would never feel the need to "owe" anyone, but that it's an equality issue for me. I like to pay sometimes. It makes me happy. Even playing ground.

He makes a comment that maybe I have control issues. He's disappointed that I don't know him well enough to know he would never push me into something I didn't want, let alone play the "I paid, you put out" card.

I fire back and accuse him of having control issues since he's making such a big deal about it. And I also tell him that I don't know him well enough to know whether or not he'd play the "I paid, you put out" card. I have a feeling he wouldn't, but in my experience, ya never know.

So now I'm feeling slighted, like "how dare he not know ME well enough to know that I wouldn't put out just because someone bought me dinner?".

That did it. Ooh, I'm on my high horse now. I go off. In the past, I didn't have a really good handle on my fuse, it was short, and it didn't take much to light it.

My fuse was blazing. I am woman, hear me roar.

I said a lot of things, way too many things. My stupid bruised ego. I couldn't reel in my anger, and ground whatever good feelings we had about our budding relationship to a mash.

I really didn't let him get much of a word in, and hung up when I had finished having my say. It took a few minutes for my retarded, junior-high-school-girl-brain to focus on the irrationality of my actions, and I sat there, regretting how infantile I could be sometimes.

Sometimes? A lot of the time.

A half hour went by and I was attempting to finalize my monthly billing in my haze of regret and self-admonishment when I got a call from the receptionist. She said that she had tried to get ahold of me a while ago, but my line was busy.

Yeah, I thought, I was kabboshing whatever chance I had of a happy ending this evening.

She said I had a delivery at the front desk.

Awesome. Probably some proofreading that was late. Anything to get away from billing for a moment's peace. I headed to the front desk.

Shock. And awe. And awwww....

It wasn't proofreading waiting for me.

It was a very nice arrangement of Stargazer lilies, my favorite flower.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I walked back to my office, managing to avoid responding to the "ooohs" and "ahhhs" from my employees, set them on the desk, collapsed in my chair and opened the envelope. There was a small card.

Which read, simply:

"Jeg er glad jeg møttes du. Du er en spesiell kvinne."

Which, in Norwegian, means "I'm glad I met you - you're a special girl."

He remembered my favorite flower.

He remembered that my heritage is Norwegian, and was clever about letting me know that.

He was romantic, and thoughtful.

The guy got it right. The girl got it wrong.

The moral of this story? Keep your cool. Go easy. Benefit of the doubt. Talk it out. Need I say more?

On the way home from work that evening, I stopped at the store and got an extra bottle of wine and a fresh pack of double AA's.

Gramps - Part Deux

2009-03-24T17:55:00.008-05:00

So, after a semi-successful first date with Gramps, I agreed to a second outing. If you read my checklist from my first date with him, you'll see why. That said, I was expecting good (not great, but good) things on the deuce.

He asked me if I wanted to go out for dinner, and then a movie or drinks afterward. Cool with me. Laid back, time to chat, and possible entertainment of my favorite kind.

He decided on the restaurant, Schneithorsts. German food. Ugh. I really don't dig German food - very heavy, all meaty and starchy, and a lot of flavors that I don't enjoy. But since he didn't ask if it was okay, or if I had any suggestions, I figured this was his dealio, and if he wanted to pay for less-than-delicious food, so be it. I'd manage.

So he picked me up in his nice mid-size SUV, and whisked me off to Deutschland. We got seated, I started checking out the menu, and the waiter asked if we'd like something to drink. All of a sudden, I heard Gramps start to order a bottle of wine......in German.

Yup. He was speaking in the tongue of the Fatherland. That is the reason we were there. Not for the "delicious" food. Not for the bier. For him to impress me with his mad Sprechen skills.

In high school, I had to take a language class. I chose German. I studied it for four years. I ate pickled pigs feet. I built a gingerbread house from scratch. My German name in class was Herme. I went to the German Convention in Bismarck, ND, and made out with another German student in his car (he was from Fargo). His car had automatic seatbelts, he was that loaded. It was a BMW....naturally.

Translation - I know my German. But Opa here didn't know that. So he was out to impress.

Nothing about Germany - language, music, or food - impressed me. After so many years of learning it, and living in St. Charles (German Town #1), and my ex-husband being from Washington MO. (German town #2), I was over all things German. Done. Moved on.

Did I tell him this? No. I didn't want to spoil his fun, and he didn't know how much I was turned off by all things German.

So I decided to silently critique his dialect, pronunciation, and grammar.

He made a few mistakes, nothing too terrible. I think he was lucky he had a German-speaking waiter. I don't think it's a prerequisite for working there. It was kind of fun watching him enjoy the exchange, always looking to me for my reaction. I commented a couple times on how "seemingly well" he spoke the language.

Hahahaha.

We had a decent conversation over dinner. He talked a lot about his photography hobby, and how he liked to visit local state parks to shoot wildlife and insects. Nerdy? No. I like that. He was less quiet than our first date, but I still wouldn't call him chatty. Reserved. Professor-like. Cautious. But, all in all, nice. And muy guapo...wait, that's Spanish... gutaussehend. Handsome.

Anyway, after a scrumptious meal (riiiight), he excused himself. I asked him:

"Wohin gehen Sie?"

Ha. The look on his face - priceless.

He smiled and answered, "To the restroom."

To which I replied, "Wo ist das Badezimmer?"

He started laughing. He got it. Game on.

We ended the evening at Blueberry Hill, drinking non-German beer (I stuck with my Irish dark and chewy, he had something local), and we exchanged our German history. He also had taken many semesters of the language, loved it, and used it whenever he got the chance.

Uh oh. Was this something I could live with?

Not sure.

We ended the date on the front steps of my flat. I wasn't ready to let Herr Gramps step foot into the doorway of my Haus until date #3. That was my rule. No visitors until the following had happened:

1. Three dates, one of which I planned and paid for and he was okay with that.
2. He told me where he grew up and about his family
3. I got a peek at his DL, to make sure he was who he said he was
4. A friend, who I'd arranged to "surprise" us at a pre-determined location, got a good look at him and gave me the thumbs up (and so if something happened to me, she could accurately describe him to a police sketch artist or identify him in a police lineup)

Kissing, however, was well within the rules. He played by the rules. Very well.

So, now I've had two dates with Gramps, and he was turning out to be a possible keeper.

Or was he?

Date number three - the Doorway Date - coming soon to a blog near you.

Gramps Had Potential

2009-03-15T21:18:00.010-05:00

Fourth times a charm, right? It was getting to be early autumn, which is my favorite time of the year in St. Louis. Chilly at night, the smells of fireplaces, dead leaves on dirty ground, and the fall rain. A perfect time to meet the perfect man, right?

I'd exchanged a few emails and phone calls with Dwight, who worked as a developer for Maritz. I like techy guys - they're nerdy in all the right ways, smarties, and they can be hot.

He seemed pretty benign, if not a little boring, which was more than welcome after what I had endured on my first three dating experiences. He said a few of his coworkers were headed to Hermann to the wineries (about an hour outside of St. Louis) and asked if I'd like to go. Since it was a day trip, with other people, I thought it might be fun - I love the wineries, and if we got bored we could leave early.

He said the group would be meeting at 8:30 at his friend Rob's apartment in St. Charles. 8:30? Hmm, a little early to be heading to the wineries in my opinion. Either they wanted to experience the town (antiques, etc.) or they were serious drinkers. Turned out to be the latter, as I later experienced.

So I pull up to the apartment complex and Dwight is there. He looks exactly like his photos, very cute. Curly sandy blond hair, glasses, tall, and dressed in a J. Crew kind of outfit. Nice! Totally my type. I'm a sucker for blondes, even though they always do me wrong. We walk over to each other, hug, and proceed up to Rob's apartment to meet with everyone and get the show on the road.

Riiiight. Rob and his girlfriend were passed out from the fun they had on Friday night, so they need time to shower, etc. WTF? I dragged my ass out of bed, got ready, and drove from U. City all the way to St. effin Charles to sit and wait? Not cool.

More people started to show up, and we finally got on the road about 9:30. Instead of taking Dwights car, he said it would be more fun to ride with his coworker Dan. ?????? Awesome. So now I'm stuck in a car with Dan the Man, his ho Jo, and am at the mercy of the Brew Crew for the day. I HATE being stuck anywhere. HATE it. If there was a word stronger than hate, I would use it here.

So we drive out to Hermann, which is about an hour. Dwight doesn't really say much, he's more of an observer than a joiner. I can't jump in the conversation because they're talking about the party the night before. By the time we get to the winery, my mood is less than stellar. (I was very uptight back then, and gave people just enough rope to hang themselves.)

We go in, grab a long table, set up our foodstuffs, and proceed to get some wine. The band (oh yeah, oom-pa-pa polka band) starts up, so at least that's a distraction. Dwight is still kind of just a happy observer, he's quiet, hard to get into conversation, so I give up and attempt to meld into the group. They're in their very, very early 20's, and Dwight and I are 30. Not a whole lot in common, even our music tastes are very different. Don't get me wrong, they are nice, but it's obvious that Dwight is the odd one out, being older, nerdy, and quiet. Which is fine with me, but not on a first date, a group date, far from home.

My fault completely. I agreed to the date, I agreed to carpool. Guilty. So do I have a right to bitch? Oh, heck ya.

Dwight asks if I want to walk around the town, so we check out some antique stores during which he offers up his nerdy opinion about this old clock and that old contraption. Then it hits me - I'm out with Gramps. A cute Gramps, but Gramps all the same. At this point in the story, Dwight will now be referred to as Gramps.

Gramps wanted to head back to the winery to see what his "friends" were up to, so we toddle on back and the table is full of drunken fools. Awesome. It's always so much fun to be around a bunch of drunks when you're stone sober. Then, one of the gals gets sick, so the party is officially over and we're St. Charles bound.

Gramps drives, because he is sober and because I tell him to. I'm exercising my right as an adult to get home safe, and soon. Dan the Man and Ho Jo soon pass out in the back seat, so I designate myself Radio Captian and attempt to enjoy the ride home.

We arrive back at the meeting point about 4:00, and I am beat. My day-long teeth gritting marathon has left me with a sore neck, and I just want to get the hell home, put my jammies on, dish the dirt to my roommate, and drown my anger in a dish of Haagen Daaz. Gramps asks if I want to grab some dinner, and I beg off citing exhaustion. He ends the date with the usual "I hope you had a nice time" and "Let's plan something soon".

Now, I love to people watch. The psychology of why people do and say what they do intrigues me. I like to examine group dynamics, and attempt to figure out who's a leader, a follower, an observer, etc. I spent the entire day observing Gramps - how he interacted with me, his coworkers, the shopkeepers, etc. This is what I concluded about Gramps:

1. He is a naturally quiet person
2. He is polite, nice, and good-natured
3. He is a little boring, but there was a chance that he had a wild side
4. He is happy about his job, but has other interests (photography, music, antiques)
5. He goes with the flow, but also steps up when pushed
6. He has great fashion sense
7. He was a good kisser

When considering all of the above observations from our first date, I thought that a second date wasn't out of the question. So, I agreed to get together with him soon.

Stay tuned for my next post: Date #2 with Gramps. It's a doozy.

He Wore Green Velvet...

2009-03-10T15:24:00.008-05:00

On the road to recovery after my second dating experience through Match.com, I decided to meet with someone I'd been corresponding with for awhile. He was "in the biz" (marketing/advertising), a little older for my tastes (I was 30, he was 39) but we had been getting along famously over the phone so once again I gave it the old college try.

I suggested that we meet at Barnes & Noble over coffee, and it was one of those slightly humid, warm and overcast Sunday afternoons that happen frequently in September. I dressed casual, because it was a bookstore, a weekend afternoon, and coffee. I assumed he would do the same, even though we never mentioned it. Kind of a given, you know? Casual date, casual dress.

Now, he had posted a variety of pics on his Match page, in which all of them he looked his age, had hair, and appeared normal. Normal in that he was dressed appropriately for each occasion, i.e., coat in the winter, shorts while hiking, etc.

Imagine my surprise when Roddy McDowell walked in the door, took a seat across from me and started to chat away, oblivious to my stunned countenance.

Well, it wasn't the Roddy McDowell, but his 1970's lookalike. Planet of the Apes Roddy McDowell. The Fantastic Journey Roddy McDowell. If you're having a difficult time placing who Roddy McDowell is, think Austin Powers with decent teeth. That might help.

Now, rather than give you a brief overview of his outfit, I am going to do it justice by highlighting each part so that you get the picture.

Dusky Green Slacks - yes, SLACKS. These were slacks that my dad would have worn when I was a wee bit. Slacks with a crease in the front. Slacks with no butt pockets. Slacks in every sense of the word. And in a color I couldn't really describe, because in the light they appeared yellow, but when inside they were a sheeny kind of green. Hence, dusky green.

Minty-Green Turtleneck - when it's a St. Louis warm and humid day, there is no need for a turtleneck unless you are 1) attempting to cover up poorly-placed hickeys, or 2) are a grandmother attempting to fight off a cold.

Sepia-Colored Loafers w/Tassles - hi Dad, thanks for meeting me for coffee.

Forest-Green Velvet Blazer w/Piping - it totally completed the outfit. VELVET. With a breast pocket for a hanky. Highlighted by dark green trim.

It was like Easter circa 1976, and my grade-school principal had shown up to the after-church egg hunt. To sum it up, a sort of leisure suit gone wrong (were they ever right?). This monochromatic mess was nothing like his pictures. Nope. And you may be thinking, maybe he was going for edgy? There was nothing edgy, cool, hip or eclectic about this. It was like a conundrum wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a warm green tortilla.

A velvet tortilla.

And, to top it all off, his pictures on Match were from maybe 10 years ago. In person, he looked weathered beyond his age.

Fooled again. Fooled in a big way.

I sat there drinking my coffee, and did my best to have a conversation with him. It was damn difficult, considering I was feeling duped and confused, and chromatically abused.

So I started to pick him apart, in my head. His hands were ginormous, like big knuckley science teacher hands that can crush a beaker in one fell swoop big. His hair looked day-old-wash dirty, matted, and thick like something was nesting in there. He spat when he talked. Even if I could forgive the attire, I could not live with these things.

These thoughts helped me to force a quick ending to the date. I told him that I needed to meet with family that afternoon and had to get on the road. I attempted to do this in a kind way, but by the way he jumped up, gave a cursory "thanks for my time" and beat feet to his car, I believe he understood that this was it.

I was left to finish my coffee with a much better view now sitting across from me - an empty chair. No velvet in sight.

Ciao, Bella

2009-03-05T13:36:00.000-06:00

After my first trainwreck of a date, I had learned some things:

1. First dates should be short, comfortable, and in a public place.

2. If you're not feeling it after you're finished with your first drink (wine, coffee, whatever), make your exit in a kind but straighforward way. Don't create any stalkers.

3. Own your decision to move on. You don't have to explain - it's just life.

So, I was on to my second date, this time with Guido. We had a very quick succession of emails and phone calls, and I agreed to meet a little sooner than I was ready. He was very agreeable to my suggestion of a beer at Blueberry Hill, sounded normal and nice on the phone, and I was actually looking forward to sitting across a table from him to discover his innermost thoughts and feelings.

Oh, he had deep feelings. I believe they transcended his soul and ended up in his pants. Read on....

I met him on a late Saturday afternoon in early Indian Summer. Perfect day, so I was in a good mood and overly optimistic. He was already waiting, so I sat down across from him and was encouraged. He looked exactly like his picture - points for that. He was a very handsome guy, dark hair, looked to be of Italian heritage, dressed very nice for a Saturday afternoon, great smile, and as we began to talk I could tell he was a charmer.

So far, so good.

Then he started to divulge his reason for being single, and using Match. Recently divorced (that's okay), he spent a lot of time on the road as a pharmeceutical sales rep, and was in town every other week. He was looking to find compatible women to spend time with on weeknights and weekends while he was in town (his former wife and child lived in another city).

Notice that I used the word "women", which is the word he used. It didn't seem to me that he was trying to sneak that one by me, so I asked him what he meant by "women".

"So, are you looking to start a relationship with that one special person, or are you more interested in dating?" I asked.

He replied, "I'm not ready to settle down again, so I'm hoping to find a few women that I can treat to a good time, and vice versa."

So he couldn't tell me this during our few phone conversations? I would have skipped this meeting, and saved myself some time. I wasn't looking for a casual thing, I wanted long-term. But then, I should have asked. I guess not everyone who was on Match wanted to find "the one" - some were looking for "the ones".

I let him know that I was seeking a monogamous relationship, thought he would be a great catch for someone, but I wasn't her. He said he understood, and then apologized for not being more upfront before we met. He said that he really hoped I would be open to dating, poured on the compliments, etc., and was very humble.

So we finished our beers, and he offered to walk me to my car. Sure, I thought, what's the harm? He seemed like a decent guy.

We get to my car, which was just around the corner, so it wasn't like I was completely cut off from civilization. I'm a safety girl, always trying to think one step ahead so I don't get into a bad situation.

As I'm thanking him for meeting and wishing him luck, he interrupts and asks me where I live. Huh??? Umm, not too far from here, I say.

He then lets loose with a full-court press - he'd love to see my place, maybe we could have a drink there? If I don't have anything, he's got some wine in his car, and he could just follow me home. He's doing the close-talking thing, which creeps me out to no end, no matter who does it. It's just not friggin normal. Then I feel his hand start to caress my arm, still close-talking me...

At that point he became Guido. He suddenly seemed to be an oozing charicature of Hollywood's idea of goomba italiano - his hair looked greasy, his skin looked greasy, all that was missing was a gold chain around his neck,a pinky ring, and a "How you doin'?" pickup line.

The dude was smooth. Didn't see this coming at all. I thought our parting was a done deal. Maybe I'm naive, maybe I missed the signs. Either way, I was out of my element, he'd thrown me off but good, and I had a difficult time getting the words in my head out of my mouth for him to hear.

I really don't remember what I exactly said, but the gist of it was that I had to get back or my roommate (didn't have a roomate, but that was for me to know) would start to worry. I think the mention of a roommate meant that we wouldn't have any privacy, so he immediately became less interested. He backed off, and said that he hoped he could call me when he's in town in case I change my mind.

I was as nice as I could be in my attempt to get the hell out of there. I ended up driving to a friends house, in case he was tailing me (didn't know what kind of car he had). Throw him off my trail...I'm such the super sleuth safety gal. Yeah, I saw all of the Monday Night Movies of the Week with Tori Spelling about obsessed guys, danger, stalking, etc. But yet with all of this knowledge, I'd still willingly put myself into an uncomfortable situation.

So, on my second date I learned the following:

1. Before meeting with someone, ask them what they're looking for (relationship, hook-up, friendship, etc.).

2. Create a list of questions that you'd like the person to answer before meeting, and determine what answers will and won't get you to a meet.

3. Park in a busy area, and when leaving ask your date where they parked, so you can go in the other direction and ward off any weird behavior. Ted Bundy was a nice guy, and nobody needs to know what kind of car I drive.

4. Tell someone, whether it's a friend, neighbor or family member, the details of the date (where, when, name of the guy, what time you expect to be home) so that in case something happens, there will be people out there looking for you.

If my dealings with Match have taught me anything, it's be prepared for anything.

Goomba.

Sage: The man, not the herb

2009-03-03T22:14:00.000-06:00

Having been a single girl in an interactive marketing career, it made perfect sense for me to try out the various online dating sites in the quest for my next soul mate.

The first site I ponied up to was Match.com. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of men, and I eagerly picked up those tongs and started loading my options onto my “all you can eat” plate. But I do have my standards (no wilted greenery for this gal) and I had my own set of rules that went into every selection I made.

The first set of criteria is what I call “ingredients”. I know women are sometimes accused of over-communicating, but men, ya gotta give a little to get a little. If I called up a profile that seemed thrown-together, generic, and minimal, that salad got tossed. I want a meal!

The second set of criteria was “presentation”. This involved at least three seemingly recent photos of moderate quality. None of this too-small-to-see, yearbook or fuzzy headshot crap – if you can’t be upfront about what you look like, you’re probably hiding something I don’t want to look at. Oh, and that picture-less option, ShadowMan, is scary and probably means you’re scary…and likely lazy also!

The final set of criteria was “side effects”. I realize that we all have our wants and needs, but listing Assertiveness, Sarcasm and PDA’s as a “turn off” is a sure-sign that you are controlling, boring and uptight, and have no business being in a relationship with anyone but yourself. Keep it fresh and light, no relationship poisoning for me.

Okay, now that my rules were in place, it was time to put them to the test.

My first chat that led to a date was Sage (I have changed names slightly to protect anonymity). We had emailed, moved to the phone stage, and decided to get together for dinner after about two weeks of rapid-fire communication. My first mistake – agreeing to have dinner. NEVER agree to meet someone for the first time in a situation that will take over 15 minutes to finish. You can have coffee or a drink in 15 minutes, and scoot out if it’s less than ideal…dinner, not so much.

I walked into the restaurant, which he let me choose (nice start, right?), and I had a difficult time finding him. Why, do you ask? Turns out he didn’t have any hair. Well, he did in his profile photos. But not in real life. Bald as a baby butt. I discovered this when I heard my name said aloud, in a questioning tone, coming from the bar area. I looked over and saw a stout and shiny-headed man getting up from a stool, looking expectantly at me.

To be clear, I don’t care if a man has hair or not. Bald is beautiful. This was a “principle of the thing” situation.

Sage (who I’ve now renamed Lying Baby Butt Head, or LBBH) walked over to me and said:

“Hello Kristin! It’s so good to finally meet you in person! You’re even prettier than your pictures.”

Hmm. Couldn’t really say the same, so I responded.

“LBBH, it’s good to meet you too.”

Lie. I felt betrayed. Tricked. Worried. Should I leave? Liars tend to have other character flaws as well, such as cheating, stealing, and ax murdering, none of which I signed up for. But we were in a public place, where I knew the owner and a waiter or two, so I decided to stay and make the most out of the situation.

The host took us back to our table, and the place was crowded beyond belief. Anything that we said to each other would be overheard by many, and since I was pissed about LBBH’s misrepresentation, I was in full retribution mode.

I proceeded to grill LBBH on his childhood, his education, his job, and his personal life. I left no stone unturned, no nuance unexamined. I practiced interrogation tactics that the CIA would pay good money to learn. LBBH was not getting off easy. LBBH wasted my time, so I was going to waste his, and get a good meal and a tasty bottle of wine to boot.

Here are some random facts I discovered about LBBH via my mad date-torture skillz:

-he never went to prom because his incontinence problem in 3rd grade led to the nickname “pee boy” which carried over into high school
-he breast fed until he was three (oh my)
-he lost most of his hair during college, and now shaves his head (fine, but why lie?)
-Jello makes him anxious (issues)
-his favorite television show, ever, was Small Wonder (oh dear)
-he plays the accordion (umm….okay)
-he has a pet hamster (aw jeez)
-Barbie made more sense to him than GI Joe as she had hair you could style (wha?)

I managed to elude divulging any information about myself by answering all of his questions with a question. I’m tricky like that. By the time we finished dinner, and he paid the check (natch), I began to shut down, and I saw on his face that he realized his diarrhea of the mouth had put him in TMI waters. He probably felt like his was sinking. Little did he know he had sunk at the first hello.

We parted ways, his final words being, “I’ll give you a call”.

My reply - “I like hair”.

Take that and run a comb through it, Lying Baby Butt Head.

Next.