Friday, July 17, 2009
So a friend of mine will be getting married next August thanks to Match.com. My experience was not such a fairytale. In fairness to the site, I am cynical and make fun of just about everyone. I was picky and only went out a few times, each one flavored with a delicious bitter-sweet taste of the bad date that makes a good story.
Date #1: Bike by Dating
I had set up a date with a guy named Josh. His headline on Match was "Loser Seeks Winner", but since there is rarely truth in advertising I ignored it. We had been emailing and decided to meet at a local coffee shop. He asked me to call to confirm. No problem. However when I called him he was either disoriented, high or just had a lobotomy. I want to cancel, though friends think I need to "give it a shot". I get to the cafe and he is late. I am absolutely thrilled, and I hope he doesn't show. I make a mental note that I will give him 15 minutes before taking off. 13 minutes go by, I burn my tongue drinking my hot chocolate so fast and dash out the door. I get a call about 17 minutes after the scheduled date time....
J: I'm here. Your not here.
K: I was there, but thought you werent coming.
J: I was coming, I'm here now.
K: Oh, I'm not there.
J: Do you want to come back?
K: No thanks, I think I'll head home for the night.
I am recounting this story to my sister when I need to interrupt her. "Um, hold on, he's tapping on my window now, he just pulled up on his bike." As I pull over (out of politeness), I see him pedaling away in the opposite direction.
He emailed me again to set up another date, I don't remember how I politely turned him down, but I know I did.
Nice guy, but awkward laugh, really awkward. Infact his demeanor was quite awkward. Also he was my height and I'm barely 5'3. Awkward, awkward, awkward.
Compulsive lip licker. I was told I was being picky about this and went on a second date with him. His constant lip licking made me think I needed to lick my lips, then the more I thought about it the more it became a compulsion for me. It was like we were playing the mirror game.
He dislikes menu items named after nonfamous people. "Who is Rachel? Why do I care about what sandwich she created?", he muses. He goes onto name several menu items that are named after people he doesn't know and why he doesn't understand them. I like sandwiches, regardless of their name, a sure sign that this will not work out.
He also itemized the bill- I had ordered a house glass of white wine and a small ceasar salad, none the less I antied up the $11. I can sum up the 2nd entire date in a text I sent to my friend Meghan, "It's not going well. I think he's a republican and he doesn't find me funny."
No matter what your political preference you should find me funny, and if you don't, you are in for a world of pain if you try to date me. Because, frankly I find me funny.
Monday, July 13, 2009
I've obviously had a lot of fantastic ideas in my day, hence the title of my blog. So when a writer friend recently sent out a request for stories of the terrible things people do to their significant others, I knew I had to have something that fit the bill.
This story is a contrast of maturity. I was 21 and a semester away from graduation. I had been with my boyfriend Brian for 4 and a half years. He was the only guy I had ever been with. This is the part where I applaud my 21 year old maturity. I was thinking in terms of the future and feared that I might meet some regrets in my thirties if I married the only guy I'd ever been with. Actually the lyrics from Mary Chapin Carpenters song, "He Thinks He'll Keep Her" (which I had won a CD of at a 10'th birthday party in which we went to the Wyoming Valley Mall where a KRZ DJ was giving out CDs), stayed with me and haunted me. I decided to be honest with him and talk to him about my fears of being 36 and meeting him at our door. He swore he didn't have the same concerns, that he was sure about me.
About a week or so later, I come home from a grueling 4 hour shift of recieving prank phone calls at the Ithaca College information desk to an instant message (remember those?) saying "Ask your boyfriend what he's really doing." Apparently a girl in Brian's dorm decided to rat him out for kissing a chubby 18 year old. I know she is chubby because she had a link with pictures on her AIM profile. It was before the days of facebook so finding this out was not so easy. She wore overall shorts. Why this is relevant to my story, I don't know. Wait I do, I want you to know she was easily resistible.
I'll paraphrase the many sobbing conversations and negotiations, and cut to the moment of my shining idea: A Wild Card. This is the contrast of maturity where I wonder what I was thinking. The wild card meant that I could make out with someone else and then we would be even. In retrospect, I could have realized this would fail had I observed any playground interactions. When does someone hurt someone else and then when they hurt them back they call it a day?
I picked a friend of a friend to have the honor of being my wild card. It was not as simple as the term "wild card" suggests. There was more than one encounter and I got attached. It became a horrifically long and drawn out break up with a Real World-Esque Vacation thrown in (I will one day write a blog about the legendary Ocean City trip). This wild card ended my relationship, nearly destroyed one of my friendships, and my wild card and I never got together.
Brian is married and my wild card is married with two children. I can hold on to the fact that Mary Chapin Carpenter will never write a song about me.
Oh, and one of my student's math games has these cards simply labeled "Wild Card" in all caps, I have removed them from the deck.