The following took place within an hour of us meeting.
Him, joining a conversation already in progress: Oh really? When did you go to Niagara Falls?
Me, deadpanning: My honeymoon.
Him: . . .
Me: I’m kidding. It was Family Vacation, 1994.
Him: Well, it was a popular honeymoon destination for a while!
Oy. I’ve been trying to find a way to describe my attitude today, but haven’t stumbled on quite the right sentiment yet. It’s something like this, combined with a healthy dose of this. Plus a heaping scoop of “none of this should really surprise me anymore” cynicism. Maybe this does my attitude justice.
They say bad things happen in threes, and I’ve got a streak of 2-in-24-hours going, so let’s go, Universe, bring on that last one, please, I don’t feel like waiting around until next week.
(This seems to be quite the trend, doesn’t it? Go to DC, watch life take a quick turn toward the shitter. It’s a magical city, I tell you. Fucking magical.)
Anyway… Happy thoughts! Work’s great, they all love me, I managed to put out some fires this week that needed dealing with, yada yada yada. Also, I’m having a fabulous time on the social circuit, and can’t wait for tonight’s fun. (Ladies, I’m happier in person, I swear!) And I feel like a real human being today, as opposed to the embalmed-with-vodka thing I had going on yesterday, so things are off to a great start today. We’ll see how long that lasts…
Today’s highlights, as culled from sent e-mails:
First message of the day, 7:19 AM
Oh god, I think I may still be drunk.
The response came back addressed to “Dudess.”
You knew this was coming, right? Of course we’re carrying on the tradition begun last year. I mean, sure, someday I hope to write a deep, heartfelt post about someone very special in my life, but at the rate we’re going, I’ll be 80, senile and writing a lovely little sonnet for my cat. And I don’t even like cats. Or sonnets, really.
As I mentioned, I’ve been on a lot of dates lately. In particular, a lot of first dates. I would hate to over-generalize such a vast and varied population as half the species, but through my extensive research, I think it’s fair to conclude that men are idiots. In the interest of serving the public, I thought I’d put together this handy little reference guide I like to call “How Not to Date Me.”
Be Raised by Wolves
Let’s say we’re out having drinks and appetizers, and in the course of serving yourself, you drip some sauce on the handle of your knife. If your solution to this problem is to gingerly pick up the knife and lick the sauce off of it, that is the moment we will be through dating.
Hint for next time: Use your napkin. You know, the one that’s right next to your plate, with silverware still wrapped up in it, instead of being laid out across your lap. Yeah, that napkin.
Suffer from a Case of Mistaken Identity
It’s the end of the date. You walk me to my car, and thus ensues The Awkward Pause. If you then offer me (a) a handshake; (b) a hug; or (c) a kiss goodnight, that is the moment we will be through dating. Because, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not a contestant and you’re not a game show host, and I’m really leaning toward option (d) none of the above.
Hint for next time: You want a kiss? Go in for the kiss, without talking about it. Yes, you’re assuming the risk that she might deck you. You’re the guy — deal with it.
Forget Your Audience
If, during the course of the evening, you need to excuse yourself from the table for a trip to the restroom, by all means, do so. However, if you get up from the table, explaining that you need to “go pee-pee,” somehow forgetting that I am an adult and not a three-year old child you are potty-training, that is the moment we will be through dating.
Hint for next time: “Will you please excuse me?” works just fine. We all know where you’re going and what you’re doing; you needn’t be any more specific.
Suffer from Alzheimer’s
If we have the same conversation on Date #2 as we did on Date #1, I’m going to notice. Particularly because the conversation wasn’t that interesting the first time around. You can try to explain it away, but I’ll be left assuming that you (a) are juggling so many people you can’t remember what you talked about with whom; (b) weren’t listening to a word I said; (c) have genuine memory problems; or (d) all of the above. None of them work in your favor. And that is the moment we will be through dating.
Hint for next time: Cheat and write notes on the inside of your forearm — you can check them when you go pee-pee.
Be a Wuss
It’s the end of the date. You walk me to my car, and thus ensues The Awkward Pause. If you look bashfully at the ground and say, “I’m really bad at this,” that is the moment we will be through dating. I may be able to refrain from saying, “Yeah, you are,” but I’m pretty sure the sentiment will be written across my face.
Hint for next time: Grow a pair.
Have Bladder Control Issues
Let’s say we meet for coffee, and then you take me for a walk around the neighborhood and through a local park. At what point, exactly, does it become ok for you to duck behind a tree to relieve yourself? Right — the moment at which we will be through dating.
Hint for next time: You know that Starbucks that’s a 10-minute walk away? The one we met at for coffee to begin with? I’ll bet they have a restroom. Why, they might even let you use it, if you ask nicely! Peeing behind a tree is acceptable only if you’re camping in the middle of nowhere or attending a kegger in the back 40 of somebody’s house out in the country.
Lack Basic Social Skills
If you lie to me about something totally inconsequential, then slip up in maintaining your lie and confess to me that you’re a horrible liar, but you’re “still a really great person and I’m sure you’ll see that and I just want to spend time with you,” that is the moment we will be through dating. When I then cut off all communication with you, please understand that I am not mad at you, I am in no way interested in you, and sending me four e-mails and leaving two voice mail messages groveling, offering to buy me “something nice to make up for it, I just want to see you” will not change my mind. Nor will five more e-mails, including a re-cap of the weekend trip I was supposed to accompany you on. Newsflash: I. DON’T. CARE.
Hint for next time: You might be beyond help. But just to be on the safe side, don’t lie. Ever.
So, Internet, please feel free to distribute the “How Not to Date Me” guide to everyone you know. Afterall, there are roughly 2,741 men in this world that I haven’t dated (and rejected) yet, and this information could prove to be invaluable to one of them. But I’m not counting on it.
I got my hair cut today, which is always a delightful experience. I don’t know if it’s the scalp massage, the general feeling of pampering, or the lovely things Frank says about me, but I always leave there happier than when I arrived.
Today, Frank’s comments ranged from “I love your sweater! Feels so soft…like Angora, almost.” (Yes, that’s because it’s 50% Angora.) to “Your eyebrows are perfect! Do you have them waxed?” Um, no I tweeze them myself. “Holy crap! They’re gorgeous!” (Yes, I think so, too.) to persistent head-shaking at how stupid boys are. “What is wrong with them? Don’t they know a good thing when they see it? God, I’d snap you up in a second and never let you get away!” (Yes, what, exactly is wrong with them? I’d like to know, too.)
So, I left there feeling like a million bucks, having spent only half that, and looking like this:
Not pictured: 40 degree weather, annoying wind whipping
hair into my face, and creepy moving company guys staring
from the parking lot.
Back in the office, I checked my e-mail and was immediately hit with some rather unwelcome news. Apparently I’m still a 19-year old sorority girl, because upon hearing this not-so-pleasant news, my first reaction was to get drunk and screw. (It’s an expression, people; let’s not take this too literally.) Not surprisingly, neither beer nor someone to hook up with magically materialized in my office. Instead I settled for a seething e-mail rant, half of which was conducted entirely in capital letters. Good times.
So, as long as my good mood’s been shot to hell and we’re talking about stupid boys, let me ask you this: Is it acceptable to stop seeing someone because you don’t like the way he walks? And, is the mere fact that you’re considering this definitive proof that maybe, just maybe, you’re too picky?
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