22 First Dates: Shh! (Sometimes things are awesome)

I’d like to welcome all three of my new readers who found me after tuning into the Diva’s edition of the Den of Sin radio show.  Many thanks to Dusty for pimping the Princess Bride Festival as well as my dating life.

I’m going to let you guys in on a little secret. Don’t tell. It’ll ruin my reputation.

Sometimes my first dates go very well.

Gosh. I almost feel like a traitor for admitting this. It really does happen.

Heck, every now and then, a fantastic first date leads to a nifty second date. Last year, an unexpected first date turned into a very nice six month long relationship. No, you loyal readers  never heard about that one. My secret to securing second dates is not writing about the first date with anyone I actually want to see again. It’s worked well so far.

However, in the last few months a couple of my exes spontaneously suggested I write about our first dates. It seems they fear for my dating future if men see nothing but horror stories in my blog. This is the drawback to having the world’s most googleable name.

I was ready to take one of them up on it when, to my surprise, I had a very nice first date. Gosh. I could go back and re-read journal entries about exes to remind myself of details long past, but I’d rather call my girlfriends and gush about the tall, dark, and geeky goodness I enjoyed on Saturday night.

No, you can’t have details. I’m afraid of jinxing it. Suffice it to say my evening included zombies, Rocketmen, compliments on the contents of my bookshelves, and generous helpings of delicious beef.

Today, I can’t wipe a grin off my face. Don’t worry, though - I still have a backlog of dates I haven’t written about yet. (I live under the illusion that if I let enough time pass between meeting a guy and writing about him he’ll forget I exist rather than turn into an angry stalker.) Stay tuned for tales of the guy who showed up in a liquid latex shirt, an angry racist with a chip on his shoulder, and the purple haired pre-op transvestite.

Tags: 22 First Dates, dating

22 First Dates: The Body Builder

It’s actually quite rare for me to be stood up, but it happened twice in as many weeks. One of the guys, who lives less than a mile away, actually asked if we could could Skype instead.

On Sunday, I did what many of us do when we’re feeling lonely and perhaps a little desperte - I went slumming on Craigslist. I’ve really got to cut that out. Any time I go slumming there half a dozen people I know in real life wave hi.

“Aww. Feeling lonely, Chris-Rachael?” they say.

“Wait!” I protest. “These ads are supposed to be anonymous!”

“Riiight. That only works if you stop using proper grammar, don’t cite zombies, and quit referring to strange men on the internet as ’sir.’ You might as well leave your thumbprint and a DNA sample every time you post.”

“So, what are you doing on Craigslist?”

“Me?” They’re suddenly a little less mocking. “Er…I just surf around here for laughs. Yeah. That’s it. Er…let me know how this works out if your body isn’t found behind a dumpster.”

The Body Builder keeps popping up like an angry zit before a photo shoot. He was everywhere I wanted to be. Tonight, I wanted to be out of the house. Voila - there he was, eagerly replying to yet another personal ad.

Uncle. I agreed to meet him for coffee an hour before my favorite shop closed.

When I pulled up he was flexing outside the door. I get the feeling he does that for fun. He pretended to squint when I got out of my car then greeted me with, “It IS you! Yeah. I’ve seen your ads.” After several dozen first dates, I will say what followed was the single most creepy knowing wink I’ve ever experienced. It deserved dramatic warning music.

My normally reliable coffee shop closed early on Sunday’s. Damn. On the walk to a restaurant next door his attempts to rub his arm up against mine nearly pushed me off the sidewalk. I commented that he sure was a big guy in the hope he’d take the hint and give me some space.

“I can drop 360.” He looked so proud.

“If a globe falls out of my hands, so can I.”

Chirp. You could hear crickets after my lame attempt at humor. Body building was no laughing matter. From the frown lines on his face, I wasn’t sure if he was capable of laughing. We walked in awkward silence.

“You’re into BDSM play, right?”

Wait…what? A little segue, please. You’re supposed to lure people into that kind of conversation, not bludgeon them unexpectedly with it.

“No, that’s not my thing.”

He looked disbelieveing. “Your profile looks like you like it.”

I thought through my profiles. Let’s see, there’s the one where I say I’m not looking for a one night stand, the one where I say I’m interested in dating someone who can keep up with me in conversation, and the one where I say I’m a criminal mastermind in search of my partner in crime.

“Sorry.”

Wait…why was I appologizing? Oh, because he looked like the kind of guy who could break me in half then floss his teeth with my tendons. Every single photo he’d sent in response to my ads was of him oiled and flexing. Well, except for one. As we sat down for late night coffee, he looked conspiratorially around the room and, just loud enough for other people to hear, said, “You got that pic of my penis, right?”

“No,” I lied. If he said so, I’m sure he sent one, but I honestly couldn’t pick his penis out of a lineup. I get so damn many unsolicited photos of the things they all look alike.

“What? I know I sent it to you. I’ll send you another one when I get home.”

“No, really,” I said, “I’m good.”

“Are you saying I’m an ugly man?”

Wait…what? Yes, he was an ugly man. I consider tall and dark to be handsome. This guy’s red hair had faded to a dirty blonde over the last four decades. His failed attempts to tan left his skin a blistered pink beneath copious freckles, which themselves were almost the same shade of yellowed brown as his teeth. I had to squint to see the resemblance between him and his admittedly meh photos.

“No, that’s not it.”

“I’m a good looking man!” The guys at the table across the room from us glanced over. One raised a dubious eyebrow.

“It’s the internet. A lot of guys send me pictures of their penises. I don’t need to see another one. Honest.”

“That’s not what you’re saying. You’re saying you think I’m an ugly man.” He crossed his arms, flexing once more, and looked genuinly insulted.

I wasn’t sure how to get out of this without him whipping it out on the table as some kind of horrific proof. “Listen, the way I see it, if I get to know a guy well enough to see his penis, it really doesn’t matter what it looks like. It’ll get the job done regardless.”

“You think I’m an ugly man.”

Get a mirror, dude. Even if you had an award winning penis, it wouldn’t make up for your face.

I was exasperated. “Why did you reply to my ad?” More important, why did I consent to finally meet him? I ignored him the previous four times. I couldn’t believe I let sheer persistence outweigh common sense.

“You’re smarter than most of the women I see on the internet.”

Finally, a compliment! It was the least creepy thing he’d said to me all night.

“Most of them are just crack whores looking to score a hit and make somebody else pay for it.”

Wait…WHAT? What kind of ads did he usually reply to?

“Wow. Uh, I don’t get anything like that. There are a lot of guys who write like they didn’t make it out of the 8th grade, plus all the guys who just want an anonymous hookup.” Damn. I could tell from the glint in his beedy eyes he thought I’d just segued back to the opening he was waiting for.

“I want to ask you a question.” He leaned in too close for my comfort. “Let’s say your zombie app-o-poh-liss happens.”

…dude, you did not just mispronounce apocalypse. Surely even good Christians know how to say that word. Oh, wait. They call it The Rapture. Fewer syllables to confuse.

“The world’s ended and everybody’s running around with shotguns and they’re surviving off whatever they can find that got left behind. In your world, when that happens, will people still have sex?”

Put a fork in this date. It’s done.

“I’m not looking for a hookup,” I repeated.

“What are you looking for?”

Okay, that was a reasonable question. “Someone I have things in common with.” Unlike you. “Someone I can hang out with.” Unlike you. “Someone who wants the same things out of life I do.”

“You want sex.”

Well… yes, actually. Just not with you. Damn women for being so picky!

Twenty minutes had passed. Normally, I give guys a full hour. “Listen, I don’t want to lead you on. That’s just rude. But I can tell we’re not looking for the same things. So I think I should go now. No harm, no ill will, right?” Please don’t corner me by my car and beat me senseless, you scary angry man.

“I don’t care what you do.”

“Okay. I’m going to go now.” I slowly backed away from the table. My plan had been to make a run for the bathrooms and hope he was gone by the time I reluctantly emerged. Instead, he stormed past me and slammed the door on the way out. I lurked near a window until he was well past my car before I decided to bravely venture out.

I have my fingers crossed he learned the right lesson. Sure, persistence can pay off, but if it takes that much effort to convince a woman to meet you, maybe you should leave the crack whores, BDSM, and penis photos at home. Please.

Tags: 22 First Dates, dating

22 First Dates: The Jock

This week’s ill fated internet date du jour was apparently sponsored by The Guild.

To our left, a kid with leg braces and full cover earphones was watching YouTube clips of a man beating the hell out of someone. To our right, a seminary student with books including “Desire and Deciet” atop his bible played World of Warcraft as a sexy female elf.

I sat between them listening to a passionate sports fan talk about his career in athletic supplies. I knew within five minutes this wasn’t going anywhere. For one thing, the last sporting event I saw was a game of Pyramid on Battlestar Galactica. For another, I couldn’t stop staring at his teeth. There was something transfixing about the completely random array of colors and directions they pointed. His accent matched his dental work.

Once upon a time, The Jock toured the country on the periphery of the athletic world. Living in multiple cities is one of the things we had in common, though he said he mostly saw locker rooms and bars. After awhile, they all looked alike. These days he works in elementary education. I respect this. We need more men willing to work with young kids. He told me how he’s doing a lot of reading about how colors impact behavior.When he asked what color my walls were, I answered, “Books.”

“You have a shelf?”

“I have a library. I’ve culled it down to a couple thousand.”

Pretty much any wallspace not taken up by a window or my couch is filled with bookshelves. I love the way they look, the way they smell, and most of all, the ability to pick any one of them up and remember what I was doing the last time I read it. I re-read a fair amount, so some of my favorite books are packed with memories before I even crack the cover. Sometimes, just touching ones I read during the happiest times of my life can make me feel better on a bad day.

“Why? You can’t read all that!” He looked stunned. Before I could reply, he tried to soften the blow by jokingly saying, “Somebody’s a packrat! Do you also have a room full of sh…” he stopped in mid sentence when he looked down at my rather awesome boots.

Good job, Match.com!

He’s a country boy sports fan who hates reading and thinks living in a walkable district is a waste of money. I’m a city girl nerd who lives in a private library and loves my busy neighborhood. I will say this - unlike many of my internet dates, he wasn’t a bad guy. He just wasn’t a good match. We both posted that we’re outgoing extroverts who cheerfully judge people based on their writing skills, value public education, and have tattoos and piercings. When you have a good selection of things in common, it never hurts to meet someone in person and see if you’ll hit it off.

To our left, the angry kid with the leg braces was still watching short YouTube videos of people on street corners in random parts of the world beating the crap out of other people. To our right, the World of Warcraft Virgin had been replaced by a freakish alternate universe reflection of our date. I was half tempted to look around and see if someone was filming a Microsoft 7 commercial with us as the real world people and the couple next to us as the idealized actors. They were both drop dead gorgeous late 20-somethings clearly hitting it off grandly on their first date. His doppleganger had a full head of hair. Mine had no softness under her chin. The combined weight difference between the pair of us and the pair of them was enough to create another person.

Somebody was getting laid later that night, but it sure wasn’t anyone at my table.

Tags: 22 First Dates, dating

22 First Dates: The Wedding Crasher

I gnawed on my swizzle stick, honestly wondering how it was possible for any man to be this boring.

“…which is why I never hooked my X-Box up to the internet. Games are hard enough without other people talking in my ear, distracting me…”

Surely, hidden somewhere deep down, he had a crazy side just waiting to get out.

“…lived here all my life. Went to Xavier for high school, then U of L. I keep meaning to visit other places, but the furthest I’ve been is Cincinnati…”

C’mon, surely you have an ambition? A quirky hobby? Interesting friends?

“…spend most of my Saturday nights at home. Nothing much going on…”

It wasn’t even my swizzle stick. I found it abandoned on the table and gnawed it to a rubbery mass as I tried to feign interest. I hadn’t even had a chance to buy myself a cup of tea before he started into the boring monotony that was his dull life.

“…don’t like going to movies alone, so I wait to rent them…”

He wasn’t anything like what I expected. His online correspondence had been sparkling and funny. His profile was well written and certainly implied a life outside videogames.

“…never liked reading…”

That was the last straw. His hour was up. I’d been counting down for the last 55 minutes. Surely there was a girl in Louisville who coveted a bowling ball shaped homebody who would be quiet, stable, and never seek a life outside the pair of them, but I wasn’t her. I politely shook his hand without bothering to make any pretenses that we’d ever see one another again.

Which is why I was completely shocked to run into him a few months later at a friend’s wedding. The couple are amazing, energetic people with an infectious passion for life. I didn’t know he was friends with them, but because I’m the kind of sappy romantic who honestly loves weddings, I was thrilled to see he had a date on his arm. See - there really IS someone for everyone! This was going to be a fantastic night.

I didn’t see him again after bumping into one another at the door, but after the cake cutting, I saw his date sitting alone at a table. I sat down and asked her how things were going. She looked terribly nervous. “I don’t know anyone here.”

“Hasn’t your date introduced you around?” I asked.

She looked like a deer in headlights. “He left.”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought he went to the bathroom, but his car is gone. I don’t know anyone here and I don’t know how I’m getting home.”

“I’m so sorry.” I was boggled. “Er…how long have you been going out?”

“This was our first date.”

That’s right, this classy gent brought a woman he’d never met in person to a wedding then abandoned her there.

I asked around looking for any friends of his who might be willing to offer her a ride home. No one I talked to had a clue who the guy was. It turned out he not only left his date rideless in an unfamiliar part of town, but he’d also crashed a stranger’s wedding. Having met him once, I never would’ve thought he had it in him.

I’ve been on some doozys, but even I decree this poor lady wins a prize for Worst Internet First Date Ever.

Tags: 22 First Dates, dating

22 First Dates: The Deer In Headlights

Lest you good people think I’ve somehow managed to find the worst losers on the internet, let’s give a little equal opportunity time to the other side.

Sometimes I’m the scary date.

I sent a snarky message to a guy with an amusingly sarcastic profile. A few exchanges passed over a couple of weeks. Then one night, we were apparently both in front of our computers at the same time and he proceeded to crack me the heck up in a rapid fire series of exchanges. I am a sucker for a good sense of humor. After an hour or so of this, I suggested we get together in a couple days. He wasn’t free then, but he could be free in, say, half an hour. Well sure. Why not?

Perhaps because I’d already had two drinks.

By this time I’d been on a LOT of internet dates. I kept meeting strangers because I’m an optimist. However, the realistic part of my brain long since accepted this probably wasn’t going to end well. I wasn’t expecting to meet a guy that night, but what the heck. It’d be a distraction. I was on my way to a nice buzz before plowing through some sarcastic writing. Maybe he’d be inspirational.

This is an absolute craptastic mental state to be in before heading off to meet someone new. When he said half an hour, I suggested we meet at my local dive bar, which happens to be in easy walking distance. I love my neighborhood. There’s a cheap, friendly bar two blocks away, plus a gym, a coffee house, a greek takeout place, and a bookstore. I know I won’t live here forever, but right now, I love my place.

I engaged in a moderately loud conversation with myself as I sauntered up to the dive bar. As a woman walking alone at night, I am under the delusion my safety is improved by looking like I just might be crazy enough to shiv you and steal your wallet if you try to mug me. It’s a lovely theory, but I suspect I come off as adorably cuddly mental patient. No one wants to hold up someone who thinks she’s a stuffed panda.

This early on a weeknight the bar was completely empty. While waiting for the clever gent du jour, I walked the bartender through making my version of a dairy free chocolate martini. He was dubious, but at least I was entertaining. A lot of people react to me that way. For instance, my date.

This guy was seriously cute. Imagine a thicker version of that nerdtastic god, Wil Wheaton. Yum. I like ‘em brunette and bearded. Add on an easy smile and a great sense of humor and…I turned into a blathering idiot.

I could not shut up. This is a problem any time I’m nervous, but when hoping to impress someone, it magnifies itself in the worst possible ways. As we added another drink to my pleasant buzz, I heard some of my more colorful anecdotes coming out of my mouth. I used to work at Planned Parenthood. One of my best stories from those years involves an inappropriately placed dead frog. Go on, assume the worst. I also told him about getting penis pictures from random strangers on the internet, laughed about The Fishmonger’s graphic discussion of his own equipment, and, because I’m classy, made my penises look like Aliens Chestbursters reference. Really, put a pair of dentures on a cock and it looks like it should be eating its way through John Hurt’s abdomen.

He laughed - a lot. Sadly, this just egged me on. At least I’m an entertaining train wreck. Every now and then I’d realize just how badly I was railroading over the conversation. I’d come to an abrupt stop and try asking him about work, hobbies, etc. His answers were mostly brief and somehow all led to me telling yet another embarassing story. I have a lot of them. We stayed at the bar for nearly 3 hours, him laughing often and easily. Sadly, after the first 30 minutes I knew he was never going to see me again. I was That Girl, the absolutely batshit crazy one who gives internet dating a bad reputation. He was only riding this train to see how badly it wrecked. I know. I’ve done it myself.

Normally, I meet people when I’m stone cold sober. I review the guy’s profile looking for good topics of conversation. I try very hard to make sure I’m listening more than talking. And most of all, I don’t mention anything about other people’s profiles, other dates I’ve been on, or any horror stories involving a penis. All that went out the window on a night when I met someone attractive and charming.

Give a little sympathy to this poor innocent man. At the very least, I hope he got a good story to tell his friends. “Hey, I met this crazy girl online. You’re not going to believe this…”

Tags: 22 First Dates, dating

22 First Dates: The Spy

This isn’t the first time I’ve tried dating via online personal ads. I first tried it long ago - when we rode saddled dinosaurs to school, accessed the internet via dialup, and still believed man would someday go back into space - in a time otherwise known as “The 1990’s.”

In those dark days uploading highly pixilized digital photos was a rare phenomenon. The online personal ads had strict word limits, reminiscent of an even earlier era when people actually printed ads on grey wood pulp in a thing called a “newspaper.” These “newspapers” evolved into mechanisms for distributing sunday grocery coupons and car advertisements before eventually fading into nothing but a blurry memory, but the personal ads lived on via the internet.In those primitive times, between hand weaving mammoth fur to make my own garmets and reading cuneiform tablets during my first year of graduate school, I posted a few ads on the shiny new free classifieds over at Yahoo. Yes, this was so long ago Yahoo was actually a well respected company. The 1990’s were strange days indeed.

One of my first half dozen replies was from a clever, witty IBM coder with a fantastic profile. He sent me two sentences - “When and where do we meet? You sound wonderful.” Whoo hoo! (That’s what we said before “woot,” kids.) My first few random dates had been pretty dull (a primitive word for “meh”), but his profile looked fantastic. I couldn’t wait to meet.

I suggested we visit an amazing hole-in the-wall Ethiopian restaurant. They only had 10 tables and the waitstaff all knew me personally. The way I saw it, worst case scenario I’d still enjoy a good meal. Plus, I’d taken all three of my previous blind dates there. The horrified waitresses promised they’d give the police a full description of my latest date whenever they found my body, so I always tipped well.

Naive as I was, I did understand there is always a little exaggeration in the personals, but as I sat at my table near the door, I didn’t see anyone who met the physical description from the website. Most of them were other regulars I’d seen before. I was about to give up and order some takeout when the waitress brought over a short, nervous man. His pants were so tight the interior of his pockets gaped white against his thighs. This was a stark contrast to the oversized jacket he’d rolled up twice at the cuffs. Underneath, he wore a plain white t-shirt, tucked in.

He asked my name. Behind him, the waitress shook her head and drew one finger across her throat. I thought about pretending I didn’t know who he was talking to, but hey, I know coders. They can be a little fashion challenged. Might as well give the guy a chance.

“Hi, David. It’s me.” I waved at the seat opposite me. The waitress rolled her eyes and twirled a finger around near her temple in the universal symbol of Crazy White Girl. Actually, I get that a lot.

He shuffled uncomfortably. “Uh, my name’s Mike.”

That was odd. But whatever - maybe he didn’t want his coworkers to know he was on a dating site. Back in the 1990’s, dating sites didn’t advertise on television, and if you met someone via the internet, you came up with a convincing story to tell your friends and family and you stuck with it for life.”So, um, Mike, I’m glad you like Ethiopian food. This is one of my favorite restaurants in town.”

He swallowed hard. “Uh, is the food real spicy?”

The waitress came back. “You have never eaten here before.” It wasn’t a question. She took our menus away. “I know what you like.” She patted my shoulder like I was an obedient child. “Mixed platter for two, extra lentils.”

“What’s a lentil?” asked Mike.

”It is not a meat or vegetable or bread. It is the other food.” She disappeared.

I couldn’t disagree with her. I love my legumes. This guy, on the other hand, looked queasy at the thought of what “the other food” might mean.”

So, what’s your favorite coding language?” I thought I’d get him back on comfortable ground. Instead, he looked panicked.

”I…uh…I don’t really do much with computers.”

The waitress came back with two steaming hot mugs of spiced tea, no sugar. It smelled of cardamom, cinnamon, and anise. Mike stared into his like he expected a tentacle to writhe up from the fluid. He asked for some water. The waitress gave me another “don’t make us identify your body” look.

I took a drink of my tea and sighed. I may be naive, but I’m not actually stupid. “Do you even work for IBM?”

“Yes.” He looked defensive.

”What do you do?” I asked.

”Why’s it matter?”

“David -”

He cut me off. “I saw your ad in the trash. David printed it out with a bunch of other ones. I write the women he throws away.”

It was my turn to be caught off guard.

Nope, Mike wasn’t the sci-fi loving coder who enjoyed spicy food, skiing and scintillating syntax. He hadn’t graduated from high school, much less college. In fact, he was a computer illiterate janitor at the IBM campus.

”David goes out with a different girl each week.” Mike looked bitter. “It ain’t fair. I got a buddy with a computer at home. I get him useful stuff out of the trash and he writes to David’s rejects for me. If you’re not good enough for him, you’re probably like me, right?”

I was stunned. “Did you even read my ad?”

The waitress had sat down at the table behind us during his revelation. She and the couples at the tables nearest us weren’t even pretending not to listen in. As soon as he finished, she quickly whipped around us with our shared tray of spicy delights.

”Uh, we don’t have any forks,” said Mike. “And where’s my water?”

The waitress ripped off a piece of injera, deftly snatched three things on the platter into one neat bite, and popped it into his mouth. “Like that. Eat with the bread and your hands.” The bite fell out of his mouth and onto his lap. The people behind us coughed in disbelief. I ripped off a piece of injera and scooped up a bit of lamb and lentils. He just glared.

The food was great. Lamb, carrots, lentils - all a little spicier than I usually ordered. I’d have to kick it up a notch next time. Mike looked like he’d been poisoned.

”So, do you like being a janitor?” I really wasn’t sure where to take the conversation.

”I’m more like a spy.” His face lit up for the first time. “I know everything about everybody in that building. I see what they throw away. I see what they hide in their desks. I could testify against any one of them, secretary to veep.”

Alright, creepy but he still showed a hint of creativity in there. Plus, dinner was really good. I might as well make the best of it while we ate. Well, while I ate. He wasn’t touching any of the food.

”What’s the best thing you’ve ever found?”

“I get some hard drives and cables every week. People also throw away a lot of candy bars. Dunno why. They’re just fine.” He shrugged. “It’s seasonal. After a big conference, the trash is full of t-shirts and squeezy toys. Best thing is when they throw away ski passes.”

Wow. He was right. He really would be good at corporate espionage if he had the tiniest bit of ambition. Who knows what was on the hard drives he gave away to his friends.

”When you’re not dumpster diving, do you like history?”

“Made straight D’s.”

“I’m working on a Master’s degree.”

I tried to think of other potential common interests. Surely if this David had a stack of discarded ads, something in mine must’ve caught Mike’s friend’s eye. Books - no, he wasn’t a reader. Photography - no, he didn’t own a camera. Maps - why the hell would anyone be into maps?He sighed. The attempts at finding a common interest were getting on his nerves. “Look, I give my buddy a stack of David’s rejects every week. He says the same thing to all of you.”

“So how many dates have you been on this week?”

“You’re the only one who wrote back.”

“But…” I was genuinely perplexed. “If your friend knows you don’t like history or spicy food or reading or anything in my personal ad, why write me at all? He knew we wouldn’t have anything in common.”

“You’re desperate.”

I noticed the people behind him had turned their chairs around to watch. You don’t normally get this kind of free entertainment at a 10 table hole in the wall.

He was so matter of fact. “Women all say you want a walk on the beach and a candlelit dinner, but if you weren’t desperate, you wouldn’t need to beg for a man. I mean, look at you. If you could do better, you wouldn’t be out here with me.”

The waitress magically appeared with a single check which she handed to me. He hadn’t touched the food. “She has a boyfriend. You should go now.”

I looked at her. I looked at him. I looked at our rapt audience. “She’s right,” I sighed. “You should go.”

He looked around, realized we were being watched, and bolted. As soon as the door shut, everyone in the restaurant was spontaneously fascinated by something on their platter. The people who were done eating were suddenly fascinated by the tables themselves. I didn’t want to look at them, so I stared into my food.

The waitress ducked into the kitchen. She returned a few seconds later with a pair of to-go boxes. As I went to load in my leftovers, I discovered she’d slipped in a generous extra helping of injera and my beloved lentils. She’d only billed me for one dinner. I handed her enough cash for both, plus a 20% tip. She slipped it into her apron without looking.

”If you don’t come back next week, I will call the police to identify your body.”

I was scarlet with embarrassment over making a scene. It was nice of her to remind me I was still welcome. “You might not see me. I only order takeout when I’m eating alone.”

“No. You should eat in.” She laughed. “Sunday night is slow. Bring another date.”

Tags: 22 First Dates, Autobiography, dating, flashback

22 First Dates: The Fishmonger

Gentlemen, I can not emphasize strongly enough how little you should talk about your penis when meeting someone for the first time. I know it’s your favorite toy. You want to share it with the whole world. Try to contain your excitement - or, in this case your disappointment.

Wait - I’m getting ahead of myself.

I met The Fishmonger on yet another of those early dates back when I didn’t realize an extreme facial close-up was a clever technique for hiding extra chins. A bearded brunette with a few tattoos, a fondness for science fiction, and an interest in exotic food sounded up my alley. He passed my basic literacy test in his profile and made amusing commentary about zombies in chat. I couldn’t wait to meet in person.

I have “a few tattoos.” Two, to be exact. The Fishmonger had inked his entire forearms and presumably much more. Okay, a slight understatement based on his profile, much like his weight, but who am I to talk? I’m a walking nursery rhyme.

I have rings on my fingers and rings on my toes,
rings in my navel and ears and my nose!

That goes over great with my 2 year old goddaughter, but then she also thinks it’s awesome that her Jewish auntie is the only person who’ll play “This little piggy when to market” with a Muslim girl’s toes.

The Fishmonger showed off his seafood knowledge by recommending my entree at a very good local fish restaurant. While waiting for our food, we made small talk about favorite movies, butchering fish, and the reasons why post-apocalyptic scenarios are so darn popular in American culture. It was better conversation than my average date thus far - maybe this first date would actually lead to a second!

Once our entrees arrived he segued from butchery to death. A little odd, but I was feeling charitable. Dying parents tend to overwhelm one’s thoughts. I sympathetically listened to the graphic physical details, all the while immensely grateful I’d once worked at Planned Parenthood. It’s hard to gross me out. Somewhere in his description of what was slowly killing his parents, he said I was a really amazing woman and his parents would enjoy meeting me. They really wanted to see him with a woman before they died.

Wait…what? We hadn’t made it through dinner yet. I wasn’t ready to meet his parents.That was okay. There were a few other things he said I needed to know before dessert.

For example, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but he thought he was probably sterile, so he didn’t bother using condoms.

You…what?!

Er. Gosh. Look at my fish. I wonder if it died of natural causes or a STD.

He ignored my wide eyed look of horror and cheerfully soldiered on. Before I saw him naked, I needed to know his penis was so tiny condoms literally slid right off it. Oh, and if I was in the mood for an orgasm, I’d probably need to provide it for myself since he was not only hung like a baby carrot, but also a premature ejaculator. But wait! There’s more! I learned about his hairy back, smelly testicles, and the fact when limp, you literally couldn’t find his penis in his nest of pubic hair. He said it only seemed fair to brace me for what was coming.

Whoa there, mister! You’re not coming anywhere near me.

He was so matter of fact about both informing me of his apparently immense personal inadequacies and taking it entirely for granted that we’d be having sex. I’d never seen anything like it. I’m not sure if the dying parents pickup line normally worked, if he trolled dating sites for women with shockingly low self esteem, or if he presented himself as such a freakshow that the kind of girls who sleep with carny’s were intrigued enough to see him naked. At that point, I felt like I was dazedly watching the world’s slowest train wreck. I was also afraid to let him shake my hand without coating it in Purell first.

I wasn’t able to escape without an inappropriately intimate hug. While washing all of my clothing, I called a girlfriend to commiserate about the unexpected swerve from halfway decent to TMI.

”Oh, he probably thought you’d pity fuck him. I did.”

Wait…WHAT?!

I wasn’t sure where to start with that reply. First, did I have a single dating match in the entire metro area she hadn’t already gone out with? Second, come on, you’re not that desperate. Third…eww. Ah, but it got better.

”If I knew THAT was who you were going out with I would’ve warned you. He’s not lying about his penis. I could barely find it. But that’s not the worst part.”

I was transfixed. Please. Go on. How could it get worse?”

His floor is covered in at least 3 inches of shit. I’ve never seen anything like it. Grossest thing ever. He has a LOT of animals in his tiny ass apartment. He lets them go wherever and he’s never once cleaned up after them. The whole floor, of his whole apartment, is just packed down layers of animal shit.”

This man spends his days handling raw meat.I gagged at the thought.

Gentlemen, let this be a lesson. Word gets around. Women talk amongst themselves, and we are NOT kind. Sometimes being pathetic may get you a pity fuck, but if you’re hoping for seconds, learn to wash. Wash yourself. Wash your clothes. Wash your floors. Hell, go nuts with it one day. Strip down naked with a water hose and a bottle of dish soap and soak your entire apartment if that’s what it takes. Just get clean.

And one last thing - please, I beg of you - if you ever want a woman to touch your penis, leave it a thing of wonder and mystery until the day she decides to take your pants off. Trust me on this. It’s better for everyone.

Tags: 22 First Dates, dating

22 First Dates: The Silent Type

When we last left our intrepid heroine, she’d decided to bravely stick her toe back into the dating pool despite the dead bunny floating under the tarp.

This time, I thought I’d try getting to know guys online before meeting in person. That’s the point of a dating site’s chat feature, right? I can judge his ability to write, Google the credibility of what he has to say, and if I’m very lucky, perhaps even end up amused enough to want to meet in person.

It’s a great theory. In reality, here’s an actual dating site chat transcript:

HIM: how is a girl like u single

ME: Because I’m picky. I only go out with guys who know how to use the shift key.

HIM: i shift it real good

ME: Really? Are you sure your computer isn’t broken? Try pressing the button with an up arrown on it. Look near the bottom right hand of your keyboard. Holding it down will magically transform the first letter of every sentence into a capital!

HIM: i can pfresh u till u scream girl

ME: “pfresh?” Is that some kind of ninja attack using a can of Lysol to the trachea?

HIM: u want soe action

ME: I’m watching reruns of Chuck and dying my hair, thanks.

HIM: shave that shit!!!!!

ME: I’m not dying my pubes.

HIM: u is nasty! shave it smooth an i will lick it till u all wet

ME: Look at the time! It’s “block you from my profile” o’clock!

HIM: guess my profile freaked u out that is what it was meant to do

We can see why Kentucky had to abandon the “Education Pays” slogan.

Most of the time I don’t bother taunting the trolls. I simply block anyone who types the letter “i” or “u” as part of an introduction and go back to my quizzes. Why look - if I was a deity, I’d be the Greek God Dionysus! Imagine my shock and surprise when someone literate pinged me as I was in the midst of answering questions about which Star Trek Alien Race best represents my personality.

It’s such a rare phenomenon. I’m reaching the point where I’ve almost fetishized good writing. That’s right, you sexy thing - capitalize the word “I.” Ooh…a correctly used semicolon? Raar. Did you just quote from The Transitive Vampire? Baby, I’m so wet.

Ahem.

Sorry about that. I realize such fantasies are about as realistic as a Mormon’s dreams of celibate sparkly vampires. Let me go put away my librarian glasses and MLA Handbook.

One fine evening a clever man actually IM’d me with a question directly relevant to my profile. Wait…was this a trick? After a few minutes of genuinely wondering if a programmer decided to use the dating site as a Turing Test, I decided it didn’t matter whether the person I was talking to was real or an AI. He was funny, charming, seemed decently educated, and shared a lot of interests in common. He showed off his big sexy brain on a few more occasions, always made me laugh, and after awhile agreed to meet for dinner. Huzzah! I couldn’t wait.

We met outside Grape Leaf, a vaguely Middle Eastern place with decent food and bemusingly mediocre service. I was already enthused by his willingness to try a cuisine other than hamburgers or pizza. To my delight, he looked just like his photo - which looked pretty darn good. I was feeling pretty optimistic until I reached out to shake his hand. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Instead of offering his name, he coughed. There might’ve been a couple syllables in there, but I certainly didn’t make them out.

No worries. Dating is stressful. It can take a little time to warm up to someone new. We proceeded inside, let the hostess seat us, and silently looked over the menu. Tick. Tock. Eventually, I asked if he was from Louisville. He shrugged. Tick. Tock. I flipped through the menu a little longer, then casually asked if he liked his job. He stared at me like a deer in headlights. I resisted the urge to get out my cellphone and IM him from the dating site. Where was the funny, outgoing guy who made me laugh over chat? Tick. Tock. Should I hand him a piece of paper and ask if he’s actually mute? Surely he would’ve brought that up in chat.

When the waitress came to take our orders, he actually pointed at his selection rather than speak. I was stunned. I tried a couple more gentle attempts at conversation. How about the weather? Silent shrug. Iced tea, hot tea, or coffee? A tap of his water glass. Favorite coding language?

For the briefest second, his eyes actually lit up. I thought he was going to whisper something about C++…but no. At that point, I gave up. Might as well get my iPhone out and silently text my friends while waiting for my sumac chicken.

He visibly relaxed once I got out my phone. We ate without exchanging a word. After dinner, I politely said I needed to head home. He nodded. We didn’t so much as shake hands.To my complete shock, later that night he emailed that he’d had a great time - one of his best dates in ages - and would like to see me again. Since I don’t actually carry a netbook everywhere I go as a crutch for human communication, I had to respectfully decline. He seemed genuinely surprised.

Tags: 22 First Dates, dating

22 First Dates: The Opera Star

My married friends keep saying they want to live vicariously through my dating life. Gosh, it must be so exciting to dress up, meet new people, feel that first spark and watch the little embers burn into flames.

What they forget is most of the sparks in the dating pool are connected to floating mines. Last year, I went on 22 first dates - and 2 second dates. Excitement, sure, but not exactly what I’d call romance.

So, my married, friends, would you really like to know what you’re missing? Let’s start with The Opera Star.

I get a LOT of messages along the lines of, “i lik ur shirt. ha ha funny. ate 1 two 9 oh oh 9 ill hit that.” Oh, gentlemen - how can I resist? Your random use of spelling and lack of capitalization tells me you’re the kind of stud who never graduated high school and probably still lives in his mom’s basement.

My first well written, articulate message in weeks reaffirmed my faith in humanity. I’d started to think the Grey Goo from “Bloodmusic” wouldn’t be such a bad fate after all. He said he lived a little outside Lexington, but traveled a lot due to his job. Oh, yes, Opera singers do get around. He offered to drive to me. I could show him one of Louisville’s ethnic restaurants, after which he’d take me to the park and sing for me. Ooh…an extrovert who likes spicy food and actually has a talent? Let’s meet!

I picked Ramsi’s. They have a great Sunday buffet and are close to Cherokee Park. When he first walked in, I didn’t recognize him. The photo he sent was an extreme closeup of his face, possibly taken over a decade ago. Since then, he’d grown a lot more face. In fact, he was at least 150 pounds heavier than he claimed. Now, I’m no petite flower myself, but I try to pick photos that are recognizably ME. Once I got over the initial surprise, well, his accent was a lot thicker than I’d expected for an Opera singer. No reason to judge - Bono sings like a guy from New Jersey but speaks with a thick Irish Accent. Keep an open mind here.

He kept staring around the restaurant. I was beginning to wonder if he’d accidentally scheduled two dates in the same place at the same time. Eventually, he said, “They don’t have restaurants like this in Lexington.”

Excuse me? I lived in Lexington. It may not be a vast cultural mecca, but they don’t slaughter animals on the street and roast the flesh on engine blocks while driving home. Fine dining includes places with plates and tables and waiters!

Ramsi’s brunch is phenomenal. He stuck with biscuits and gravy, scrambled eggs, and bacon. What happened to the extrovert who liked spicy food and wanted to try something new? As we chatted, I learned that first, he wasn’t anywhere close to Lexington. He lived in a tiny town of under 2000 I’d never heard of. It was a 3 hour drive away, so he picked a “big city” in the hopes that’d impress women. Second, he admitted his “roommates” in this podunk town were actually his parents. Well, no, they probably don’t have restaurants like Ramsi’s where you’re from, bucko.

In an attempt to be generous, I thought I’d talk about his work. What operas has he been in recently? What’s his favorite part? Wait…what? You’re actually a truck driver who took one course in opera at EKU - er, well, at least you have high school level writing skills. Oh, that’s the only degree you have. Well. Isn’t that nice. No, I wasn’t lying on my profile. I really do have a MA in History, I really have lived in a dozen cities, I really do love reading, and I really do adore ethnic foods.

We were equally shocked. I thought dating profiles were where you listed interests and facts about yourself in order to find someone you’re compatible with. He thought this was a sexy role playing scenario where we both pretend to be cool, exotic people so we can have an idealized image in our heads when we fuck.

Wait…what?

Oh, yes. He drove three hours to buy me brunch. He didn’t really have time for singing, and he wasn’t that good at it anyway, so why don’t we just go ahead and get it on.

Married friends, I know right now you’re dying of envy. THIS COULD BE YOU!

I didn’t want to let him know where I’d parked, so I snuck off to the bathroom and sent frantic text messages begging friends to call me with some kind of emergency - STAT! When I rejoined him, I suggested we take a walk in the opposite direction. Maybe I could distract him with a bright shiny object and throw him off. After an interminable wait, my friend B called. She couldn’t stop laughing. Apparently her penguin exploded and I needed to come staple it back together. I struggled to keep a straight face while sounding serious, “Oh my, how are your dogs taking it? Really? The vet? Oh, sure. I’ll be there right away.”

While I’d like to say what followed was one of my lamer escapes, this was pretty early in last year’s online dating-o-rama. Things would get much worse. He wasn’t too happy about it. After all, he drove all this way, the least I could do was fuck him. How bad off was the animal? It’s not like he had to take that long.

No, no, I told him, it was an emergency - there was bleeding involved and I needed to get there asap. It was entirely beside the point that I hid out in a bookstore for awhile to ensure I wouldn’t be seen going to my actual car.

The next day, I got a message politely asking how the trip to the vet went. Right. What part of “polite brush off” did you not understand? He then informed me that since he’d driven out to see me, it was my turn to come see him. We could hook up at his parent’s house. They’d be happy to see him with a woman.

Tags: 22 First Dates, dating