The Bad Date Chronicles – Sloppy Seconds Edition

As far as first dates go, “Don” and I had a pretty fabulous time.  We met on OK Cupid and traded sufficiently witty emails and text messages for a few days before he asked me out to dinner the following week.  He made reservations at a cute little place just blocks away from the studio where I take my weekly dance class so that it would be most convenient for me to meet him there.

Don marked a milestone for me – my first foray into dating someone in their 40’s.  Up until now, my dating diet had consisted of a steady supply of boys in their mid-twenties, or Snickers as I like to call them.  Because they really, really satisfy you as the old jingle says.  But we all know what happens when we eat too much junk food.  System gets all clogged up.  What I was looking for was a serious dose of fiber.  A nice big bunch of broccoli.  Don was my broccoli.  I know.  Not the most romantic notion of all time but lately I had been finding older men attractive.

They were everywhere – hot dads with babies strapped to their backs, silver foxes all dressed up for work in crisp suits, aging bearded hipsters on bicycles.  And I wanted one!  I actually wanted to date someone my own age or – gasp! – older.  Not because it was the “right” thing to do, but because, all of a sudden, I found them attractive!  I changed my age requirements online from 25-29 to 28-44.  I was very pleasantly surprised at the number and attractiveness of all the older dudes in my area.  It was time to give it a try.

Dinner was delicious, and the conversation was fun, a bit flirty and relaxing.  We traded battle stories about our dating experiences, and laughed at the overabundance of Machu Picchu pictures online.  (Apparently this happens just as often in female profiles.  Who knew?).  We even delved into our marriages and post-marriage relationships.  Before I knew it, 3 hours had flown by and he walked me to my car.  The kiss goodnight was great.  Serious chemistry.  He even asked me out for a second date!  It was damn near perfect.

The Bad Date Chronicles – In the Ghetto

Not so charming by day. Scary as F@#ck by night.

I met “Cameron” on the dating site HowAboutWe (which I recommend you check out.  A pretty interesting concept, though I struck out 2 for 2 on it).  His profile was sparse, even by HowAboutWe standards and his date idea – “go to a bar and have a drink” was pretty uninspired.  But I had some time to fill and there was something attractive about his picture.  I responded and we were able to set something up pretty quickly.  We met at a pretty nifty little bar just on the edge of one of San Francisco’s most notorious neighborhoods (or, as someone who doesn’t want to admit to living there would say, “The Theater District”).  He was about 15 minutes late, which, in retrospect is ridiculous as he lived just a few blocks away, but I didn’t mind as there was a pretty good Giants game on and I made friends with the girls next to me.  At one point, they told me that they were rooting for this guy not to show up so that I could just hang out with them all night.  If only the night had taken that turn instead of the one that had me strolling the streets of the ghetto at 1 in the morning.

Once he arrived, and my new friends expressed their disappointment, me and my tall, handsome and oh-so-doable date settled in for a couple of cocktails (I now have a strict 2 drink maximum). It took me very little time to determine that this guy had no long-term dating potential (I am so over the underemployed musician thing after being married to one for over 10 years) but he was just too pretty to pass up.  Besides, The French Boy had been out-of-town for nearly a month and I was definitely overdue for some action.  Once the bill was squared away (a bill that he graciously paid, despite my protestations) I looked him straight in the eye and said that we should go back to his place.  Not one to refuse such a request from a lady, he escorted me a few blocks through the very heart of the beast until we got to his apartment.

We spent the next hour quite enjoyably engaged in adult-type activities until it was time for me to get home.  I was a bit miffed that he didn’t offer to walk me the couple of blocks to the train station, but didn’t really make an issue of it.  I’m a big girl, after all and although I wasn’t super excited about stepping over junkies and avoiding being eaten alive by a homeless man’s pit bull, I made it to the train without incident.

I was surprised the next day to receive a text from my ghetto-licious friend expressing his satisfaction and gratitude and asking when we might see each other again.  I replied that I was busy for the coming week but would get back to him.  In the week that followed, he stayed in contact texting every couple of days.  He even sent a rather awkwardly adorable one saying that if I wanted to spend the night and not have to rush out of there to catch the last train out of the city, he would be more than open to that.  We set up our next date for a few days later and I prepared myself for a rather fun sleepover. 

There’ll Be Sad Songs

One of the most annoying things about going through a breakup has to be the come-out-of-nowhere, totally inconvenient crying jags.  As a single mom, I don’t get a lot of time by myself .  Let’s face it, I barely get enough time by myself to use the bathroom, let alone cry.  It’s a luxury I cannot afford.  So I often find myself alone only in the car during my hellish hour-long commute (both ways).  While NPR is usually what I listen to, sometimes I get sick of listening to the debt ceiling, Afghanistan, Wall Street and how the world is generally fucked conversation and just want to listen to music.  Normally, this is a fine and sensible proposition, as listening to too much NPR can turn you into an insufferable, depressed and cynical human being that can only talk about organic yurts or Afro-Cuban music.  But when one’s heart is banged up, bruised or even partially broken and held together by duct tape, pop radio is fraught with landmines.

Oh Billy how I curse thee

There you are, minding your own business, just driving along bumper-to-bumper, trying your best not to be nosy and check out what everyone else is doing in their car when it hits you out of nowhere.  A song comes on the radio, about love, or loss or even about nothing but it reminds you of that person because you heard it once coming out of a restaurant when you walked by it last year.  Then the tears come, slowly at first.  Just a few fat shimmering ones that get caught in the folds on the side of your nose and tickle like hell followed by a couple more at a steady clip. And now you are praying that nobody besides you notices because you have to drive next to these people for the next 20 minutes and damn – there go your Banana Republic slacks fresh from the dry cleaners, (which took you two months to pick up) all wet with tears.  With the proverbial floodgates opened, the tears are now streaming and you are fumbling to change the station and grope around for tissues or old and hopefully only slightly-used McDonald’s napkins all while trying to steer and work the brake so you don’t rear-end the person in front of you.

You tried your hardest to avoid this.  You didn’t put on the oldies station, or the Top-40 station that’s been the soundtrack to your relationship.  God forbid you put in your iPod and put it on shuffle.  No telling what THAT would turn up.  You listen to a station that’s as inoffensive as possible, one that maybe you haven’t listened to in a while and used to enjoy.  You don’t think that you’ll hear anything that will trigger the tears. The truth is you can turn that radio to any station and I guarantee you will hear something that will make you cry.  You will hear some song where just a phrase, or part of a chorus or even the way the artist is singing will turn you into a sad, hot mess.  You will find yourself connecting to the most ridiculous shit, nodding your head to bullshit like this because it SO captures exactly how you’re feeling!

My advice, if you care to take it is this – don’t put on a country station and just give in.  Cry your little eyes out for the entire song. Soak yourself in it and roll around in it and just feel it.  Indulge the inner teenage girl within.  Let yourself think that this song was written just for you.  And when it’s over, wipe the tears away and laugh at how ridiculous you are.  You, capable woman that juggles a million things at all times was reduced to weepiness by a trite and quite stupid love song.  And remind yourself that you are not  Wonder Woman, at least not all the time.  Nor do you have to be.  And if you’re crying that means your heart still works and just like any other muscle, the more you flex it and use it, the stronger it will be the next time.

The Bad Date Chronicles – 15 Second Man Edition

Gentleman...start your...oh..

Yes, the title means exactly what you think it does.  15 Second Man was the catalyst for this post.  Here is the rest of the sad, sad story.

15 Second Man was my 2nd (but sadly, not last) foray into the wilds of Craigslist.  There  was no picture attached but the ad was so charming I was willing to take a chance.  It was a send-up of the old Dr. Seuss One Fish, Two Fish book and consisted of about 20 really funny, thought-provoking questions.  Of course, possessed of a strong wit and a love of answering questions about myself (I have answered absolutely every question on OKCupid) I had to respond.  He seemed to really dig my answers and we exchanged numbers after some really entertaining emails.

Don't tell me you wouldn't hit that

Due to scheduling conflicts, we weren’t able to get that first date on the calendar for almost two weeks.  In the meantime, we had frequent communication, texting every day and talking on the phone almost every other day.  We sent photos of each other back and forth and to my surprise, he was attractive!  Definitely on the larger side but in a very cute, Man vs. Food kind of way.  Things got hot and heavy pretty fast.  The back-and-forth quickly devolved into full-on sexting and even phone sex, all before we had even met!  One day, we clocked in at almost 600 text messages sent back and forth.  Needless to say my productivity level at work plummeted. We were both almost drunk on anticipation of meeting each other, finally, in person.  Would the chemistry be there?

The night of the date finally arrived, and to this day, I can’t recall every being this nervous about a first date.  It felt like so much was riding on it, that I would be beyond embarrassed if this person, whom I’d already been pretty intimate with, would turn out to have no interest in me or vice versa once we actually shared the same space.  I was beyond relieved when I first caught a glimpse of him at the door of the restaurant.  He was adorable. And he seemed to think exactly the same of  me.  The butterflies and nerves quickly departed as we settled in at the table for some drinks and dinner, to be followed by a trip to the bowling alley.  The date couldn’t have been more perfect.  We were clearly digging each other, and having a great time.  When, a few hours later, he pulled me in for a kiss in the elevator of his building, I though I had died and gone to wherever it is that all good sluts go to when they die.

Despite the undeniable sexual chemistry, we actually “negotiated” what was allowed and not allowed once we got down to business.  We both agreed that we didn’t want to rush into sex, that we wanted to give it time for something to really develop before we took that step.  It was perfect!  All too perfect!  And then…I understood why he took the nuclear option off the table.

Cut to his bedroom.  We’re kissing.  Passionately.  Like in the movies.  And I don’t mean the kind you can get from Netflix.  Being the surgeon that he was, he was very, very, VERY good with his hands.  Being the feminist I am, I decided that he deserved some reciprocity.  The equipment was impressive.  Far from the smallest but not too far off from the biggest I’ve encountered and of a perfect girth.  I was literally chomping at the bit to get to work on this thing.

I’m no surgeon, but I’m pretty good with my hands as well.  I didn’t realize I was THAT good.  A mere 30 seconds after first contact, Old Faithful erupted unexpectedly and way ahead of schedule.  I was stunned – this had actually NEVER happened to me before, although I told him otherwise.  My years of high school theater served me exceedingly well that night.  I was kind and reassuring and all of those things you need to be in order to preserve the fragile male ego after is has suffered such a…blow.  Took my time saying goodbye and departed for the night with a very nice goodbye kiss.