Three Love

BOOK 8

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 8^th 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.

Two Love

BOOK 7

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 3^rd-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.