Writing with the enemy. It has been a slow week on the blog front from our gallant hero. Blind Date Girl lingers in spite of me being me. When encounters don't fail, it’s quite difficult. It’s difficult navigating all that is in my life that is boring and why the frick would anybody want to read it? It’s difficult trying to navigate the things that I do that I really don’t want to tell. It’s difficult trying to navigate how I want to take this writing, where to go with it, because a lot of people I care about read it, and with this shit there’s risk. Luckily, I’m spared for the moment, and instead of delving into recesses, our tried and true “So a One-eyed Girl Walks Into a Bar. Literally.”’s theme persists for at least one more entry. Everybody, we have a guest.
Allow me to introduce Mollie Price. Mollie is smart, hot, single, funny as hell, fellow PNWer though rival in allegiance (PDX4E!!), and definitely, DEFINITELY, never went on a date with me. Apparently after having read my first several entries she thought “well hell, I guess anybody can write a blog.” I don’t know if that’s true, but she certainly can. It’s a little humbling that she does MY schtick so much better-crafted with so much fewer grammatical errors, though her italics usage is suspect. A “So a One-eyed Girl Walks Into a Bar. Literally.” / Slutty Top Stiletto Girl joint venture may, just may, take over the dating blogging world. Enjoy.
Reason number one (of five million) that I don’t like dating: it feels too much like my old job. I don’t mean in the hackneyed, “dating is so much work” kind of way. I mean: trying to make someone you just met feel comfortable, funny, and interesting is basically Outreach, Communications, and Volunteer Management rolled into one. I guess the one positive difference is that no date victim has made me fill out his community service log at the end of the night. Yet.
Reason number one (of one) that I like dating: I get to wear slutty tops and stilettos.
Since my love of dressing up and judging people has an unfortunate tendency to trump all else, when offered an invitation to wing woman a friend at a bachelor auction I thought, “excellent. A chance to don tight clothing and laugh at all the pathetic fools out there who admit to the world—and themselves—that they are willing to pay for a date”.
And thus sparked a series of errors in judgement:
First mistake: attended bachelor auction.
Second mistake: exchanged my credit card number for a bidding number.
Third mistake: forgot to ask my friend to stop me from using said bidding number.
Fourth mistake: made friends with the bachelor auction bartender who demonstrated her friendship through extra shots.
Fifth mistake: Perused the “bachelor look book” (Yes. That is an actual thing). Happened to notice that one of the bachelors—Jason—was an Architect, which any Mindy Kaling will tell you is the chick flick gold standard.
Sixth mistake: stood next to Jason—the Architect—’s friend who egged me on during the bidding process.
…but I’m getting ahead of myself…
The auction begins:
So far I’m under-impressed. Donde estan los chicos bonitos?
Mira!
A beautiful Rufio (from Hook) look-alike. But taller. Less Neverland. His date package (pun desperately trying to be unintended) includes a trip to the zoo. My favorite.
Aaaaand the bidding flies by $400. $450. $475. Sputtering to a stop at $500. Mmm. never mind. For $500 that kid would most def have to be the real Dante Basco.
Some more stuff happens. I don’t know what exactly. More bachelors. More screaming women who look mean. More alcohol, por favor.
Jason the Architect is up. His friend mentions (for the MILLIONTH TIME ALREADY) how nice he is, so I raise my paddle at $100 to drive up the bidding. Raise it again at $200. This time no paddles come up after mine. GOING ONCE! GOING TWICE! [gentle reader, please note that during this interval I shouted into the crowd, “you’re going to let this guy go for $200??? Bid! Biiiiid!!!!” I am not proud of this action since it was kind of mean but mostly I’m not proud because it didn’t work]. SOLD!
Shit.
Our date is scheduled for a week and a half later: A Sunday afternoon food tour of the Pike Place Market in Seattle, followed by drinks at a nearby pub-y bar-y place. I am not wild about the idea of going on a touristy tour of my hometown, but I am wild about the idea of a date that has a set time limit and guided activities.
I arrive at the starting location and find Jason seated next to our tour guide, Santino, and four five uber couple-y couples all eager to celebrate their love for one another or some shit. Jason is uncomfortable. Desperately uncomfortable. I am under caffeinated and also uncomfortable.
In a misguided attempt to entertain, I tell Jason all the facts I learned in my 8th grade social studies class about the Pike Place Market. He responds with variations on: “huh. Really? [pause] huh [pause pause pause pause x a million]”. I keep forgetting to ask him questions about himself. I keep forgetting to calm down and not come off as a crazy person. Poor Jason. Poor Santino-the-tour guide who is also subjected to my uninvited Pike Place Market history lessons. Happy stupid couples.
After the tour Jason and I get drinks. It is difficult to put into words how few words were spoken. If we were radio hosts the dead air we unleashed could have killed an entire city. We talk about our siblings, [paaaaaaause] our “hobbies” (I don’t have any) [pause pause pause] and how it was raining. In Seattle.
Sigh.
I am tempted to send Jason an apology note. Except I don’t know his mailing address.
Or his last name.
In conclusion, I have (re)learned three important lessons:
1. Drinking impairs impounds my judgment.
2. If you wear a see-through shirt, sprayed-on pants, and stilettos the first time you meet The Architect you have purchased at a bachelor auction, the only thing he will feel the next time he sees you is disappointed. Better to lower expectations by initially wearing something that makes your physique look like what comedian Dana Gould would describe as a condom filled with walnuts.
3. The Junior League—a pseudo sorority for 20- 30-year-old women that wouldn’t admit your Jewish grandma back in her day—does not count as a legitimate charity and, therefore, you will receive no cosmic karma points for your $200 donation to their bachelor auction. Damn.
Until the next time. There will be a next time. My holiday gift to you, though it may be a little late.
Why not to order fried calamari on the first date. This has been a week of ups and downs for our gallant hero. I know I’m a sucker for brazen and uncouth and irreverent. Got roped in again by such a vixen last week. It didn’t help that she loved my Whitney reference. Maybe I’m too witty for my own good. Anyway, I may, some time in the future, ask for some advice on said profile from you, my faithful readers, cuz maybe that’s why I keep netting lame-os. Me and Sandy are doing the IM thing, trying to work out a meeting time. It’s going back and forth.
Sandy: I’m pretty much free the rest of this week.
Me: Wednesday?
Sandy: Except Wednesday.
Me: Thursday?
Sandy: Oh yeah. No. Can’t Thursday either. Busy.
Me: Um. Sunday?
Sandy: May have plans with friends.
Me: Jesus. You’re a tough one to nail down.
Sandy: Actually, Jesus was pretty easy to nail down.
Me: (Instant boner) Marry me.
Settled ultimately on a Friday date, which I was trying to avoid because of the pressure of a Friday date, and I still had a sour taste in my mouth from on paper girl. But anyway. Here we go. The date was planned to take place at a local restaurant that turned out to be waaaaay too family friendly for my taste. So we go next door to a pub. We sit and chat. She’s pretty damn cool, I gotta say. This woman
Author’s note: I’m trying to use “girl” less and “woman” more, at the gentle nudging of some friends. Working on it.
Author’s second note: My dating record is nudging me to use other words besides “woman”. Working on it.
is all holistic health and shit. Physically trains people. Teaches yoga, and is writing a book about it. She didn’t explicitly mention all this in her profile:
Sandy: Because guys would just be all gross about it.
Me: You mean, like asking you how flexible you are, or if you could do the splits, or wrap your legs around... yeah, I could see how guys could be gross about it. (Think Nancy Reagen) Let’s talk about something else.
Needless to say my interest was piqued.
After a couple of hours and a couple of drinks, I’m thinking it’s time to give her an out. I’m hungry, if she wants out I’ll go back next door and shove some kids out of the way towards me stuffing a fish taco in my mouth. She wants to stay and have another drink and share some calamari. I get it that the drinks do come into play at some point, but with the brushing of hands and the sharing of aioli, and the walk outside to her car and hug goodbye, seems reasonable to expect that it went well and a repeat might be in order, no? Especially when
Me: Maybe we can get together again?
Sandy: I’d like that.
Maybe some of you women out there can help me understand. At what point do you say “I’d like that” when the very next day
Sandy online site message: Hi. Thanks for the drinks and dinner. It was good to hang out with you, but I don’t think we’re a match. Good luck on your dating adventures.
Me online site message: Um. Well. I didn’t like you anyway cuz you’re a stupid-head hose beast!
I probably didn’t need to retort 3rd-grade-style, but what the frick? Was I on the bubble before calamari, and had tentacle stuck in my teeth the whole time we were eating thereby pushing me to the other side? Online dating is turning me gay.
So I’m at the point where I’m giving this shit a rest for a while. For one, I’d like some holiday cheer in my life right now and online women aren’t giving it. Two, this last week hasn’t been all bad. Couple days after Sandy, went out with a woman the old-fashioned way: by a colleague feeling sorry for me after reading my last blog entry and setting me up on a blind date. That might explain why we hit it off. That might explain why we had a great time. That might explain why we smooched a little (was a gentleman. As if I had a say in the matter). And might explain why we’re going on date two (two!!!). Our meeting has already come with some comedy, more later.
Until the next time, though may there never be a next time. In anticipation of date tomorrow I spent last night doing laundry, and plan to shower in the next 24. I think I’m well-positioned.
I keep talking and thinking about doing this blog thing. And keep finding other things to do. Like, um, scrolling through women’s profiles looking for Mrs. Me. My quest for the Holy Grail. Long is the journey. Weary I grow. Diminished becomes its luster. Yet I persevere. No. Yet I toil. Toil it has become, with the glimmer of hope that is finding my grail. That glimmer is my solace. That glimmer is the still faint light guiding my hearty steed, frustrating though it has become. I take some comfort the Arthurian nature of my quest, until I reflect that Arthur and his men at least got pu--- during their quest. Maybe Quixotean is more apt.
The best part of online dating is the stories. And of course, I admit, my retelling is rife with some embellishments that serve to
1.properly convey the mood, setting, and the comedy that undoubtedly underlies this silly ritual
2.if I can’t laugh at this shit, all is lost
Before I begin, I ask you, my loyal friends and obliged readers, for feedback. You may have noticed the title of my blog. And you may be wondering, what the hell does the title have anything to do with online dating? Well, I ultimately chose “So a One-eyed Girl Walks Into a Bar. Literally.” for reasons that you will soon understand. But it was not an easy choice. Also under consideration:
1.50 First Dates
2.500 Seconds of Summer
3.How I haven’t Met Your Mother Yet
4.Wookin Pud Nub
5.A Little Bit of Monica Is All I Get
6.She’s Just Not That Into You Either
Which is where you come in. I welcome any thoughts as to which is your favorite. Or, please offer your own. I will bring to my knights all suggestions, and a decision will be made. But the current title is pretty damn good. So.
One disclaimer. Now that I have begun, future installments to “So a One-eyed Girl Walks Into A Bar. Literally.” will be sporadic. As this is my grail, I want to find the damn thing. Future attempts will be given a cushion, so to speak, to allow for proper assessment of grailness. That may be after one date, as most have been so far. It may be after a couple of dates in the hopes that I actually have sex with somebody again. It may be weeks between dates. Laziness may consume as it usually does with me writing. Or, I might, just might, have found the grail. Until then, as my pen (Mac) is mightier than my sword (um...), I write.
BOOK 1
My first online date. Butterflies! Jitters! Knees shaking! I’ve never done this before. I am thankful that this is my encounter because it was quite fun, and methinks how typically these things are to go. I meet the lucky lady at a beer garden in suburban hell. I was drawn to her profile by her affinity for dying her hair. She got bonus points for wearing a tight ironic tee showing off her rack. Conversation is slow at first, beers get drunk quickly, then lightening up happens and we spend 3 hours laughing and joking and brushing arms and eating bar food. It set the tone for what I hoped would be good experiences all around for people being good people and trying to find love. Didn’t find it here. For a variety of reasons, meeting was never easy, and in swooped an offline siren who distracted me from my online efforts for a few months, so this did not to come to pass. But it was a good first encounter.
BOOK 2
The way we see things. I need to premise, or possibly remind you, of my state during this dire time. I had no job, and hadn’t had one for months. The student loans had nearly run out. The majority of my worldly belongings were in storage. The remainder – a couple pieces of luggage, some pilfered nonperishable food, computer, tennis shoes and racket and balls, broom and mop and bucket, and camping gear – resided in my car. Little resided with friends in San Jose. I resided with whoever would take me. Needless to say, not exactly a state for dating.
Nay, I say. Some time after above siren was no longer, I reactivate my profile. Lo and behold, there’s a message, albeit three months old. It was sent probably literally the day I deactivated. “Hi. You’re funny. When I’m not clubbing baby seals (I mention clubbing baby seals in my profile, more later) I blah blah blah, it’d be nice to chat some time.” Well. What better way to pick yourself up when you’re down and out than meet a girl! But I don’t want to lead the poor girl on. “Hi! Sorry I’m just now getting back to you after all this time, but I have been deactive for some time, and am just now dedeactivating. I would love to chat! However, I must warn you. I have no job, I have no money, I have no place to call my home, I am estranged from my cat, and half my shit is in the back seat of my car. If any of that sounds good to you, great!”
I didn’t really question why she was not bothered by any of that. I figured, ok, she’s sensitive to people going through rough times, why let that get in the way of true love? Couldn’t agree more. We agree to meet at a bar with a happy hour (my humble suggestion). And as I’m strolling up she’s sitting on the little stone curb just outside the bar hunched down texting me where am I since I’m two minutes late. “Here I am. Hi Melissa”.
Author’s note: the names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved. Any resemblance or similarities hereon are strictly coincidence and unintended.
Author’s second note: I was tempted to use the names of ex-girlfriends, but then thought that rather harsh. And I’d hate to relinquish any chance of “rekindling” sex.
She looks up and turns her head to the right, to where I’m standing. At least, most of her did. The left eye remained pointed off somewhere towards Mexico. But fret not, did our hero jump? No. Did he gasp? No. He simply side hugged, kissed the cheek (the right one), and “Hi, good to see you”. Maybe didn’t say see, but something to that effect.
And we had a great date! Man, she was, and is, cool. I dug her. After walking her back to her apartment, we part with another peck on the cheek, and promises of seeing each other again. Which occurred on a hike up the Dipsea Trail. Awesome. I’m digging this girl, not in love, but digging her, and the whole time I have my eye open for an opportunity to throw her up against a tree and let her have one. The problem is, she’s not sending me any signals. Even when she trips and I dramatically catch her and look into her eye – nothing. What the frick? What am I doing wrong here? It wasn’t until my third try did I finally ever actually get to make out with her. It was nice. Things were progressing. In the middle of making out on the couch she pulls away, looks at me and
Melissa: I don’t know if you noticed-
Me: Haaaa!
Melissa: What?
Me: Um, nothing. What?
Melissa: I have a glass eye.
Me: You do?
Make out again. Glad she finally brought it out in the opening because it was killing me not to joke about it.
And so things progressed. One more date involving her driving in the dark. The two soon-to-be lovers were separated from an ill-timed wedding, after which I was feeling amorous, and with even more pent-up sexual tension, having not gotten more than a kiss on the cheek from the groom’s mother. Monday morning telephone call, I dialed:
Melissa: Hey.
Me: (hey?) Hey! How are you!? Are we still on for dinner and lots of rambunctious sex tonight?
Melissa: Um. Yeah. I wanna talk to you about that. Seems as though while you were at your friends’ wedding I sort of hooked up with this guy I’ve sort of had this thing with and I sort of have to go with him.
Me: Oh. (Wait, you’re breaking up with me!!!???!!! You have one frickin eye!) That’s too bad. But it’s not like we were serious or anything. Take care. (And run fast through a forest with short protruding branches!)
Ho hum. But hey, I’m single again!
BOOK 3
<3 hurts. Really, so far, I’m not doing too bad. Two dates, two cool girls, two not-so-good timings. I’ll take that. And so bring on Laura. She’s mathy. She’s geeky. She’s teachery and smarty and Stanfordy and now Columbiay and pretty and funny. She has tats. She’s edgy and gives me as much shit as I give her. She had frizzy hair. She unapologetically orders a hamburger, but separates all of the fries not already contaminated by meat. This woman was awesome. I was so tired from work, I didn’t even really want to go on this date, but I did. We had already postponed once.
And she totally hit me over the head. Walking away, after the opportunities she had to bail but didn't, after lingering beyond when anyone ever should expect, I was smiling and giddy and freaking out already knowing how much I liked this girl. I knew, and I knew it could be bad. I was good, didn’t text more than one exchange, once each. But she was on my mind nonstop and undivided for two days. I really wanted to see her again. I really wanted to call and text and do all the things we are compelled to do to make the other person want to as well and that too often have the opposite effect and we know this but do them anyway. I don’t do any of them. I wait two days. I call. I get voicemail. And, then stammer through the most painful 60-90 seconds of hey Laura it’s Me, er we, uh, you know – anyway, hey, hope your Thursday is going well just wanted to touch bases and see how it was going and if you weren’t doing something or had no plans if you wanted maybe we could get together Saturday or maybe Sunday and go on a hike or maybe something outdoorsy or if you don’t want to something indoorsy or if you don’t want to something oh those are the only two options – shit – anyway I hope you’re having a good Thursday and hope to see you soon sometime this weekend or after bye. I knew I was sinking and could do nothing about it. For four days I hope to hear from her hoping she’ll be just sooooo charmed by my cute nervousness. The email I wake up to, via online site mind you, tells me otherwise. It turns out, no spark. And my vm was odd.
Sigh. She rattled me. This was a not-so-gentle lesson that, although I may be skeptical of this online dating thing, and although I may have a tendency to take it not-so-seriously, I am dealing with forces of the heart. Forces to which I am highly vulnerable and higly susceptible. I will remember to respect those forces.
BOOK 4
Tactics. I can’t say I give the online dating thing its due. I don’t take it too seriously yet secretly would love it if I found the mother of my children. I don’t go on it enough. I would rather the ladies come to me. And for the times that I do the reaching out, I’d say I’ve been drinking at least 60%, maybe 75%, of those times. Bad, I know, but it is just so gross to scroll through people. It’s like fishing, which you can’t do without drinking, sending out all these messages, hoping one bites. One did who seemed pretty damn cool. She had kooky pictures, seemed a bit of a freako, liked complex camping, whatever the hell that means, and she was pretty cute. So I’m in.
Author’s warning: for those of you contemplating online dating, wouldn’t recommend doing the scrolling when drunk. Beer goggles work just as well on a computer screen as in a crowded dimly-lit bar.
It was a ruse. We meet at the movie theater where we’ll be seeing a movie. Movies are a bad idea for first dates methinks, but thank the frickin lord for this night. The minute I saw her I knew. Not that she was ugly or even unattractive, none of that. But she had that look. That look of I’m entirely boring and uninteresting with no sense of humor and devoid of edginess. These people have looks, and now I have to have dinner with this look. I tried to have an open mind, I did; maybe I had the look wrong. Mind closed five minutes after sitting down to dinner when I order a chard and she orders…water. So not only am I the only one drinking, she’s going to totally notice me downing them. Then we order, me – vegetarian something, her – roasted chicken. Which she ate one-third of. And which she told the waitress she did not want wrapped up after said waitress ran my card. And we missed the previews.
BOOK 5
On paper. My on paper is purposefully full of tongue-in-cheek smarmy snarky bullshit threaded with elements of truthfulness. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be as earnest as everybody else. I know it’s stupid but for months I had an empty profile, and after a drunken epiphany wrote what, in my mind, is my opus, and just haven’t revisited it since. I quote Whitney Houston and REM. My favorite Shakespearean plays are Romeo & Juliet, Three Musketeers, and Pride and Prejudice. The Dixie Chicks rank among my favorites. Message me if you like just talking. Let thyselves be known who may dare have the courage to see through it all and marvel at my wittiness. Few have dared.
Along comes a girl who is rather fond of Pulp, has catchy and funny captions, and has an element of kookiness I can’t resist. I message. She messages back. I message back. Silence. I message back. This BOOK is best told in the exchanges.
Autumn: I found your music favorites off-putting.
Me: Awesome! I’m totally full of shit. I like Pavement, The Pixies, and Radiohead. If you still find me off-putting, so be it, I’ll just find another kook to mother my children.
Autumn: Why are you listing Hootie if you like Pavement? What’s wrong with you? And, wait, I’ll get the condoms and a safety pin and we can get started.
Um. So we agree to meet at a grungy bar, of course, at 7. At 7:02
Text from Autumn: Are you here? I hate looking like a weirdo.
Text from me: I hate arriving at a bar two minutes late looking for a weirdo.
Text from Autumn: Yes or no.
I arrive.
Me: Hi Summer. (Fully aware it’s Autumn).
Autumn: (Condescending eyebrows raise, side of mouth raises) Heh. Hi.
Me: Right. I’m gonna get a beer. You want?
Autumn: (After releasing her full beer from her lips) No, I’m good.
Me: Right. Be right back.
I get beer. Nervous awkward cheers. We sit down. And then the getting to know you starts.
Autumn: I’m from Sacramento.
Me: Ha! Sac- I’ve been there. You like it? It’s nice.
Autumn: Yeah, I do. My whole family is there. Lots of friends.
Me: Um. Yeah. I bet you’ve been to Stockton.
And on.
Me: So did you ride your bike?
Autumn: No. I drove. Oh! I just got a new Mercedes blah blah blah, used, 83. I totaled my old car, and had to borrow my ex’s for a few days.
Me: Your ex? I’ll warn you, if you start going on and on about your ex it’s going in my blog.
Autumn: Ha ha, yeah, he was my ex-husband. Are you really putting that in your blog?
Me: No. Just kidding. I don’t have a blog.
Later.
Me: So, you wanna grab something to eat before going home?
Autumn: No, I don’t think so. I ate a big lunch. At noon.
Me: Oh. Yeah. That was only 8.5 hours ago.
Leaving, I’m thinking, what the hell? This woman was totally cool, kooky, with it, and real pretty, and it just wasn’t happening. I’m thinking about this, and thinking that maybe I’ll just throw out to her that though it wasn’t the best date, there are good person things that I think might be worth another shot.
Me: So I know we didn’t exactly totally click-
Autumn: We didn’t click.
We were so damn good on paper though! Dammit.
BOOK 6
Just in case. Not having learned from BOOK 3, last night I went out with another math girl. Latina. Lived in Italy and Argentina. PhD, does techy stuff. Easy money. She is cool and great to talk to and funny and has a skinny kinda-hippie body and I keep thinking I can get laid with this one. Which I wasn’t going to do last night on the first date because, not only am I a gentleman, but I gotta catch a BART to feed Little. So. The date goes great and mellow and it seems like we’re totally getting along and that we’re definitely going to be getting together again. When she offers to give me a ride, unsolicited of course, to 16th & Mission I know that at least I’m gonna stick my tongue in her mouth. As we’re buckling our hands brush against each other and she looks over at me and smiles.
Erica: I had a real good time with you tonight.
Me: Good, me too. I think we should do it again some time.
Erica: Yeah, I wanted to talk about that. I just recently started dating someone and I can’t really date you. But you seemed nice.
Me: (Mouth agape) (Blink)
Erica: But anyway, I just wanted to be honest with you and didn’t want to string you along. The last guy I wasn’t interested couldn’t handle continuing to have sex. Well, we continued to have sex, but then it was weird and I was like look, we can just have sex, we’re not going to get married, it’s ok…
And I have no idea what the hell she was saying at that point. Did she go out with me just in case she liked me better than the guy she just started dating? Was she propositioning me with a cheap one-timer blocks away from the BART station? Which would be ironic don’t you think but not really ironic no I really don’t think because 1) I could probably get a one-timer cheaper at the BART station than the beers I bought, and 2) my carpool mates who left me behind in the city were probably already warm and snuggly and tucked in their beds on their merry way towards a good night’s sleep.
Until the next time, though may there never be a next time. I’ve already heard from a lady who finds my Whitney reference “hysterical”.
