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.