It's not you, it's confusing

What the hell happened between Date A and Date B with Thomas?!?

Our first date was fun, and even had its share of cute moments. It seemed like we connected a lot. Date B, I hoped, would be even better. WRONG. Somewhere between these two dates, either Thomas or I had changed - or lost our X factor. Maybe he was tired. Maybe I was tired. Maybe we drank more in the last date. Maybe there was less adrenaline pumping. Whatever it was, it felt like we were trying harder to get the conversation rolling, struggling in vain to find that connection. He even seemed less attractive (!) By the end of the date we were both yawning (ladies and gentlemen, this is not a good sign) and checking our phones. I left the date feeling mostly confused. You know that feeling - that moment of disappointment after you've spent 3+ hours with someone and frittered hard-earned dollars on an oyster dinner [Hank's Oyster Bar - I do not recommend the oyster fried platter, you're better off with the raw plates. I also do not recommend the ceviche. And for a refreshing drink, try the Hanky Panky - sparkling wine, citrus vodka, and a splash of limoncella]. I thought back fondly on the William situation (which, admittedly, didn't work out in the long run). We would shut down restaurants, bars, anywhere in the world with our endless, effortless conversation. It's true what they say. Once you've sampled the three course prix fixe dinner at a five star restaurant, you just can't feel the same way about the greasy deli down the street. 

Two Hot, Two Trot, One Wins

Ladies, you will empathize.

Sometimes, you get lucky. You show up to a date. Expectation: Poor woman's Hugh Jackman. Reality:  Frankenstein's better looking cousin. Last week, I had two back to back dates scheduled (overcompensating in light of the Mr. V situation) with two educated and interesting men. Now, hold the phone. I look upon the two Gods and something that hasn't happened in a very, very long time occurred.

I, Ms. Thousand Dates, got nervous. And what's more - I liked it. I cannot tell a lie, audience. Let's be frank. It was because Doug and Thomas are HOT. TO. TROT. Perfect heights. Fit. Beautiful faces. I had extreme moments of shallow gawking during the date. In my head I think - stop staring at his perfect eyes. lips. chest. shoulders. arms. Man behavior alert.

But in the end, Thomas won. Optimistic, sweet, straightforward; a reader, lover of DC Happy Hours, and an avid traveler, he reminded me faintly of Mr. V; giving me hope that in that vast world out there, the shadow of what we dream for can be reflected in that initial mirror of another human being. And the reflection ain't too shabby, girls!

ee cummings - somewhere i have never travelled

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

What to do when your date has a nervous condition

Example: Eye tic. Blinking a lot. Biting nails. Licks lips (not sensually). Bloodshot eyes (warning: potential drug use OR workaholic). Any other signs that said person is living in a cave and/or has incurable nervous condition that induces real sympathy.

Suggestion: mention from the beginning of the date that you have to meet friends for a late dinner, down two glasses of wine so you can at least justify the commute there, check purse or phone semi-frequently so you come off as an unworthy date, make two trips to the bathroom in order to break up the conversation flow, and then try to go dutch. I promise: it will help ease some of the guilt.

Mr. Valentin

World,

I've been on a hiatus. Let me be completely and utterly frank about it. I've been on a man-induced-dopamine-epinephrine-norepinephrine-prophycranozanocra-no-drug-can-be-as-good-as-this two month hiatus. It's been nothing less than a harlequin romance roller coaster, and damn if I didn't enjoy the hell out of it. Now let's get down to the nitty about the man of mystery - Mr. Valentin - as we shall call him. 

1. I fell hook-line-sinker. 
2. Mr. V was just a little bit less attainable than, let's say, President Barack Obama. 
3. V has a secret little place in this heart for years to come. 

Ms. Thang! you say. What's with the secrecy? The surreptitious and clandestine nature of this blog entry? Why not serve up a dose of your own ENFP wisdom about people, possibilities, and pinot? 

Alas, my heart is in a state of recovery. More to come on the mysterious V, although the normal order will be restored as I hit the icy cold dating waters in weeks to come. 

You Can't Make This S*** Up

Friend of a friend text message:


"Sooooooo wanna hear a good story? The guy I was seeing dumped me through a Words with Friends message yesterday....only in our generation! I'm actually okay with it because really we aren't compatible and I should have done it sooner, but I didn't...the rejection part sucks, but it's def for the best! Just thought you'd enjoy the story! Worst part now is that it's my turn on the game....."

"I'll Find You on Facebook"

WORLD - I've got something stuck in my craw and it's not what you're thinking.


At James Hoban last night, I met a 6'4'' Australian armed with an PH.D. He and I were flirting and talking about, of all the exciting things, excellent PBS programming. He bought me a glass of wine, chatted up my friends, and made it quite clear (you may infer) that he liked me. When the group hit the dance floor, we were dancing. Ten minutes later, he said he had to "duck out" and then asked for my last name. I told him and then he briefly nodded. 


"I'll find you on Facebook." 


ARE YOU F****** KIDDING ME? Are we seriously in the day and age where you no longer even need to ask a woman for her g****** number?!!? If he had stayed one minute longer I would've served up a "Real classy - go to ****". (Hoping my anger is being adequately conveyed from this screen to your eyeballs.) This isn't just about some guy and a random Friday night. I invested all my prime time that night talking to you, figuring out that you were worth my time; if you could be a potential date;  and lastly, I ignored every other fellow in the room, giving you an advantage. Even a guy who just wants to bang you takes the trouble to put your number in his phone so he can booty text you. This experience deeply troubles me, fellow datees. 2012 is becoming a lazier and more treacherous place for the single girl when men don't even bother to call- wait - text- wait - email - wait - gchat- wait no - FACEBOOK me. 


And you wonder why I prefer online dating. 

Kisser on the Roof

Matchmaker, Matchmaker,
Make me a match,
Find me a find,
catch me a catch
Matchmaker, Matchmaker
Look through your book,
And make me a perfect match!

Regardless of the fact that these days the "matchmaker" is an algorithm invented by Chris Coyne, visionary creator of OKC, one holds out hope. This past week, Ian and I barely consumed any dinner before we started our blabfest. Can we discuss how his suit was perfectly tailored- our how our mutual love for spotify resulted in a perfect "oh you - me too" moment? Or how we nearly ended up karaoke'ing next door at Solly's - but finally decided to bogard the jukebox instead? Or that I was laughing so hard at one point that the unimaginable occurred - I stopped drinking? At this point in the blog I would insert my usual disclaimers about reining in the excitement/eggs in different baskets/etc. etc. - but right now, I am happy to just enjoy this first glow. And not to disappoint, there was an unexpected but welcome first kiss on the roof of Tabaq. While overlooking the city in a breathtaking panorama, slightly buzzed, and under the gaze of a startling warm February moon, I did not need a happily ever after. The city is your fairytale, and the night is ever after. 

When Picky People Date Picky People, Everyone Loses

Of all the advice that you give your lovelorn, single friends, the one most frequently used is - "you're too picky."

It may be true. Looking back on my past relationships, most were borne out of school/college/graduate school friendships, and most took a bit of persistence on the part of the male at issue. (My girlfriends and I refer to this as the "wearing down" process. Eventually, you submit. You must, because resistance is becoming more work than submitting.)

The process now, admittedly, is more involved. Guy A/Girl A has to jump through hoop after hoop of dinner, drinks, rock climbing or whatever nonsense you will put them through, sleep overs, meeting friends, meeting other bored couples, meeting family, etc. How on earth does any poor soul get through the vetting process that is tough as (if not tougher) than the American presidential race? Dating is nothing less than a rigorous and treacherous communications campaign. You are in fact selling a product - a set of values, beliefs, and a history that you believe the other person will find attractive and acceptable. With the process mired in twists, turns, and terror, it is difficult to not eliminate as soon as you sense weakness. At the first sign of imperfection, I hear many girls (and boys) repeatedly tell me, "Well, I'm just too picky." Picky at what - age 24? 28? 33? 36? I imagine the chart looks something like this:

Clarification: people do not get more radioactive with age (although they don't get any better looking). This is science my friends, and the older you get, the less picky you are allowed to be. Hear that? That is the sound of the wedding bells of all your former friends and colleagues getting hitched, leaving you in a thinning pool of candidates (even if the pool is a superior one). Factor in your added "pickiness" and the pool will further diminish. When we were younger, we were excited if someone fairly cute and nice was "into us." We jumped headfirst into relationships without knowing where they were going; we took a chance on an imperfect person. Why all this risk aversion now? Granted, no one wants a time-bomb relationship, but in our Olympic 5000 yard, 600 hurdle, 10,000 foot long jump of the dating world, it's rare.

Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that I am a catch, much like the rest of you. I am any or all of the following: warm, confident, educated, nice, friendly, progressive, well-read, spontaneous, laid back, Arrested Development watching-biking-cooking-athletic-dancing-travel-trilingual speaking extraordinaire (See every OKC profile ever). That doesn't make me perfect. It makes me a great choice for another someone searching for someone in this crazy world. And maybe, if that person is a little less picky, they might choose a gal like me. Before I become radioactive, of course.

Jack Frost

And just to clarify, when your date offers to serve as your hook-up to Drug X, Y, and Z, and even promises to cut you a good deal-


you finish your delicious scallops seared in a black garlic scented salsify puré (Urbana) and call it a night. 

When Your Date Discovers Your Anonymous Blog.

My dear friends,


As I always say, reality is stranger than fiction. The great pains I have taken to anonymize this blog are, in fact, tenuous at best. I will refresh your memories as to a certain date- let's call him Robert- which went well. This blog was not the kindest to our first date (it lumped two dates in one and labeled them un-interesting) - but for some reason I did want to see him again (I came around to this after some charm and persistence, which I think goes a long way on gchat.)


And then, on the fateful day of his dinner party that I was to attend, the worst of all events transpired. By some cruel twist of fate, he discovered my heartless entry. What to do! Proceed with matters as usual? Ignore it? Act as if it wasn't true? After a long session with my DCT (Damage Control Team)* things were no better. Even they couldn't dig me out of this blog hole. 


And then- amazingly- it seemed as if he didn't care. He did not dis-invite me to dinner, and seemed amused by the whole thing. In a turnaround moment that only a sports movie could deliver, he was now racking up mad points. Someone who could care less than I was blogging to the universe about his attributes? It almost seemed too good to be true. And predictably - as soon as if it seemed that he was out of my reach and I had colossally ****** up - I had to take back the boy. Operation Take Back involved flowers, a dress, and my hands deep in bloody marinated lamb (it turned out delightful). A successful night, you may think to yourself. 


*Your DCT should always be comprised of 2/3 members of the opposite gender, and 1/3 of your own gender. DCT should be FB/Gchat/Gmail/Twitter-accessible at all times and in any kind of emergency. DO NOT abuse the kindness of your DCT. Show them the love- perhaps a chocolate at Valentine's Day, or a kind word from time to time. They are your invaluables. 

FORGET EVERYTHING I SAID IN THE LAST ENTRY

And the reality of it shall strike you with the vengeance of lightning.


Two months into dating William, and something started going wrong. With family and the holidays looming, we were slated to spend almost two weeks apart - with sickness spreading and William's almost comedically weak immune system- I started sensing us drifting. 


My sharp-as-a-bobcat instincts were not erroneous. On our date on Wednesday, I presented the "s*** or get off the pot" moment. 


His reaction was mixed. After a lengthy soliloquy on my attributes (of which there are many), he started faltering. "The thing...the thing that holds me back is....


[My fickleness?]
[My whimsical, capricious nature?]
[My incomprehensible need to not pump out babies immediately?]


It was none of these. 


"The thing that holds me back is your age." 


You could have knocked me over with a feather. 


My age? I sputtered, over a terrible tray of sushi. But how can I change that? And you've known my age since Date 1. 


He looks like a miserable dog. "I know." Then he rambles on about how he doesn't know if he has the requisite energy to go through the stages of life in your mid-20s with me. He then realizes his fatal error. Anger streams from my eyes like a laser. I take a sip of lycheetini (also badly made at this restaurant) and say, you realize you've put me in a decision-making position. 


I ask him how he feels about never seeing me again. "Horrible," he replies, with a foregone look in his eyes. 


I already know what I have to do. Despite the sickening churning in my stomach and a sense that I have been led on by a man undeserving of me, I have enough dignity to gather my words coherently. I explain to him that the things he worries about are things that I simply cannot change. I ask him why, knowing I was six years younger than him, he chose to date me this long. I ask him, did he not think that we had something special? And why would he  let his thinking overpower his emotions? In the car ride home, it's awkward city, kids. It's rejection, in a sense, and I am not used to it. It is the opposite of what I thought would happen with this person, and I am angry more than hurt. At the end of the car ride I even have the magnanimity to tell him what he has done well [the romanticism/etc.], what he should do with others, and then, finally- that he is an idiot. He agrees. 


Before I leave the car, he stops me. "If I call you, would you pick up the phone?" 


Well, of all the damnedest things, he wants to see me again? 


I say, maybe. I mean, not in a chance in hell. There is a window. A very small window of opportunity in life, and when it closes, you have to live with the consequences. 


On the bright side, I still have his $265 spa gift certificate from my birthday. I think it's time for a deep tissue massage, ladies.