He Knows Me Too Well

Me: Did you know that there's a disease...

Sgt Lucky: Oh no...

Bad Dates Have I Known: The Man Who Did Not Think I Was Funny

The only thing that saved me from going utterly insane while I was dating was my vanity. When people didn't like me, I thought they were teh stupid. Specifically, I can recall an incident with one Match.com person who did not think that I was in the least bit funny. This caused me to think that he was totally devoid of any sense of humor, despite the fact that the record will show that I was completely obnoxious during the entire exercise.

In my defense, keep in mind that this guy:

Changed plans on me twice.

Was 20 minutes late.

Wore a low tank top with obviously and unfortunately manscaped chest hair poking through.

Had one of those creepy extra-short clipperized beards.

Had absolutely nothing to say for himself.

Fortunately, I always have something to say. I'm also, lest you think I'm just some dick who goes on and on about herself, really interested in people. I like their sad stories, and I like their happy stories, but most of all, I like finding out how they've managed to put their lives together in the fashion they currently are. This dude, creepy beard or no, had what seemed to be to be a fairly interesting job. He did editing work for some sort of TV show. I can't tell you which one, because he was fairly cagey about details. In fact, in general, I would say that I other struck him as an extreme freak who was likely to murder him and boil his rabbit, or that he had had very bad experiences with dating in the past. He was very careful not to give me any details that might enable me to, say, track him down. Here's a sample of our conversation:

Me: So you're an editor?

Him: Yes.

Me: What do you edit?

Him: TV shows.

Me: Oh, that's really interesting. My friend does that. He just edited the promo spots for some show about a bunch of fat brides-to-be who are trying to lose weight in time for their wedding. I hear there's crying. I can't wait to see it.

Him: You can't wait to see them crying?

Me: Well ... uh. Anyway. So what are you working on?

Him: A TV show.

Me: About ...?

Him: I work on all kinds of shows. (Long pause.) It's, you know, a real TV show. Not one of those reality programs. They do that across the hall.

Me: Oh, OK. Yeah, I hate those reality TV shows. And it sucks for writers, you know, because they're all scripted, but no one admits that, so they don't get a credit and they don't get benefits.

Him: Yeah. I know.

Me: Of course you know. Of course. Anyway, yeah, fuck reality TV. I can't stand, like, Survivor, or any of those shows. Well, OK, I mean, I love Project Runway, but who doesn't.

Him: I don't ... I'm not familiar.

Me: Tim Gunn? Heidi Klum? I love Tim Gunn. He's teh awesome. I sat behind him one year at Fashion Week and he was so nice to everyone and smelled just like a birthday cake.

Him: (Makes noise somewhere between a grunt and hiss. A scoff?)

At this point, I should say, I had no idea why I'm still talking to this dude. I wasn't attracted to him, I didn't like him, it was clear that he doesn't like me ... and yet, I felt like if I just said, hey, your hair is creepy and you have no conversational skills and you clearly think I'm just as hot as an otter, so let's call this off, his feelings will somehow be hurt. But of course, I can't just STOP TALKING.

Me: And of course, Ghost Hunters. That is the finest program of our time.

Him: I have no idea what that is.

Me: Oh man! You don't know what you're missing. OK, so there's this group of guys, the Atlantic Paranormal Society – TAPS. They're plumbers, but they're also paranormal investigators. So they go into all these spooky places – your standard haunted houses, the occasional library or church, and of course, loads of hospitals and prisons and mental institutions – and they try to debunk the supposed hauntings that are going on in all these places.

Him: So, is it ... do you like it because it's stupid?

Me: No, man! I like it because it's AWESOME. Also, all the guys on it have these super – actually, make that WICKED – strong New England accents. And this makes me incredibly homesick, and then I have call my mother so I can hear her talk.

Him: Ah.

Me: Where are you from?

Him: Baltimore.

Me: Oh, that's funny. A friend of mine is from ... no wait. He's from Pittsburgh.

Him: (Bristling.) Baltimore is not at all like Pittsburgh.

Me: Oh, I know. I know. But I've never been either place. So ... anyway. The other thing about Ghost Hunters is that the EVPs scare the ass off of me.

Him: I don't know what those are.

Me: Electronic Voice Phenomena? Basically, you record, like, air, and then when you play it back there are all these spooky voices on the tape, saying things like, "GET OUT" or "IMA EATCHA!"

Him: Ima eatcha?

Me: I don't know if they actually said that. That'd be scary, though.

Him: So ... wait. You're actually scared by this. You watch this show and you're scared.

Me: Oh, yes. Oh, my God, yes. Sometimes I have to turn it off.

We never made it to the third beer. My shrink, upon hearing this story, wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes and said that she didn't see much future for me with anyone who didn't appreciate why that interaction was funny. I told her that I didn't see much of a future with myself with anyone who didn't think GHOST HUNTERS IS FUCKING AWESOME.

To be fair, Sgt Lucky has never said anything of the sort about Ghost Hunters, but his best friend loves it, so I figure that's good enough.

Regarding Jealousy

Drunken Mouse: well. it's kinda like one time when [redacted] was all super chatty with Lady Mouse at last new years

Drunken Mouse: i was like time for my famous cockblock

Me: did you ask him how he was healing up?

Drunken Mouse: hahahaha

Me: "the sores almost gone? [redacted]?"

Drunken Mouse: well i was not worried but i know he just gravitates to pretty gals

Drunken Mouse: just, it can't be mines

Me: "did the doctor say it was OFFICIALLY micropenis?"

Me: "or is that just like, an expression?"

Drunken Mouse: HAHAHAHA!

Me: "so ... that means you're a lady, right?"

Me: "you're a lady?"

Drunken Mouse: that would totally fly over Lady Mouse's head

Drunken Mouse: that would be the funny part

Me: "you know, ruelala has this sale on thongs..."

Only One Shopping Day Left!

CD: There's an ad in Next magazine for someone called "Randy, the Butt Specialist."

Me: Shit! Now I'll have to get you something else for Christmas.

When You Least Expect It

My friend Gina says she likes telling me things because I'm a good listener. My theory is that this means that I'm overly interested in other people's business, and fully aware that I have no idea what anyone should do in any situation, so I don't offer much in the way of advice.

Another reason I don't offer advice: I don't think I've ever gotten any that I really wanted to hear, especially if it was right. For example, when I was single and blue, a lot of people told me that I would meet someone when I least expected it. And then I would roar like King Kong and pull their underpants over their head and tie a knot in the waistband. I mean, doy, right? Just try not thinking about that shit when you're lonely.

However, just because it sucked to hear it doesn't mean it wasn't true. Recent evidence of this: the Marine, aka Sgt Lucky. (BTW, the new nickname is a pun on his real-life last name, not an editorial comment on his good fortune in snagging yours truly.)

We met on the Match.com, as you do, and agreed to go get some coffee. I was in the midst of an "oh, fuck it" dating spree. I had told a friend, a few days before, that I was actually sort of enjoying dating, and didn't really feel like I even wanted a boyfriend.

Her response? "Ha, ha, ha! Now you'll fall in love."

Well.

Sgt Lucky showed up apologizing for being late, due to traffic and parking. I assured him that was fine, probably stammering. My very first thought was, "This guy is way too good looking to be after anything serious, and that is totally OK." I am not kidding when I tell you this was the single best-looking guy I had ever been on a date with, never mind one set up through Match.com. I figured he had to be out for ass, or possibly some sort of military-themed male prostitute hired by Coworker Dennis to cheer me up. Just in case, I started thinking about really nice presents to get Dennis for his upcoming birthday.

Lucky sat down and looked at my green tea, and then at the bar we were sitting at, and then at my green tea. "Do they ... serve alcohol here?"

"Oh. Yeah. They do."

"Do you want an actual drink?"

Did I. I needed it. The other option was to start blurting out, "You have a terribly dashing scar under your left eye, and also, I commend you on having just a touch of silver hair, which is quite distinguished. Incidentally, could you, say, bench press me, if you needed to? I know! Let's try that out right now and see."

So, actual drinks commenced, and actual conversation. I remembered that the reason I'd agreed to break my rule about dating younguns had to do with the charm of his emails, not his pretty pretty face, and started to relax. The emails had included wide-ranging subjects such as zombies and phrenology (of which my nephew is a skilled practitioner) and were so well-written and enthusiastic that I found it hard to believe he was even on Match to begin with.

Thanksgiving arrived just in time for my panic attacks. Several dates in, I was in that state where you're thinking that it might be a good idea to get on a bus and move to another state, and also wondering if he has decided he hates you, because it's been an hour since his last text.

"I need serious drugs," I told Gina. She lives in the same town as my folks, conveniently enough, and we hung out on the last day of my break, mostly to talk about boys and read tarot cards - which amounts to talking about boys, when you and your friend are both dating new people.

Gina flipped over a couple cards and smiled at me. She tapped one of them, a knight. "Dudes are usually kings, but I think maybe this is him, because he's younger than you are and because he's a soldier. And, oh, I like this guy."

"Yeah. Me too. That's why I really have to move."

"No, I don't think you have to. No, I don't think you do at all." She squinted at the cards again, touching each one in sequence. "I don't think this guy is going to want to own you."

Believe in this stuff or don't, it makes no difference to me, but I'll tell you, there's no denying the smartitudinousness of your friends who've seen you through several dating iterations.

"This is a very romantic guy," she went on. "Wow. Very romantic. And not bullshit, either. He's a gentleman, like gentlemen used to be."

"He is. He's a door opener and a flower bringer. It's so wonderful, I'm totally sure that he's a narc and doesn't know I can't smoke pot or I have to go the hospital."

"That's the real thing: It's all just fear. But no, this is a good guy. I like this guy. Maybe you can calm down and give this a chance." She looked dreamy for a minute. "What would it be like to date a guy who treats you like that? I think it would be the most wonderful thing."

Some weeks later, I can tell you that it is. For example, I just received the following text: "Re: Wednesday night, why don't I just prepare dinner while you see [your shrink]?"

If any of you hired him, don't tell me. Just let me live with my illusions.

Fair Warning

If we're friends, and you ask me if you've been a total ho lately because you've been unusually fortunate in the dating arena, and I say no ... I will still greet any and all future IMs with: "Hey, what's up, Sluttina Happypants?"

You wouldn't know me otherwise.

The Marine in Brief

My pal Smyres likes to say that if you want to know what I'm about to do, you should ask me what I'm never going to do again. In this case, it was date someone significantly younger than myself. And yet, here I am, some weeks later, googly-eyed over the Marine, who is, for those of you who are paying attention, a full seven years younger than your humble narrator.

This doesn't seem to matter, though, as he's significantly more grown up than the usual 25-year-old. For that matter, he's significantly more grown up that I am. (But let's not tell him. He's still impressed with me.)

I've dragged him to several outings with my friends so far and he's charmed the pants off of everyone. My favorite endorsement so far is from my friend Joe, who said: "Your beau seems like a nice guy. Nice, like, he could snap my neck if he wanted to, but he totally wouldn't do that."

Manners are important!