A Treatise On Dating PART ONE (from 2007)

[This is PART ONE of a two-part blog entry I posted on my myspace page in 2007. I thought it was interesting and worth a re-print, given what I'm going through now. Read on...]

In 52 minutes, I'll be meeting a Strange Man. His name is Dan, he's about my age, he works restructuring the public school system, he likes wine, and he's bald. That's all I know about him. And by "strange," I don't mean to imply that he's loony - I hope to jehovahnot. "Strange" as in "unkown to me." Think of it like a blind date. Because that's what it is.

About six months ago, I joined Match.com. There are a lot of men on there. Fewer men in the NYC area, fewer still over 32 and under 46, fewer still who know how to use punctuation, grammar, and spell-check. Dan is one of the very few I "met" on Match. We actually "met" over a month ago, but have both been so busy, we couldn't apparently squeeze an IRL meeting over glass of wine until now. (Mom, IRL is internet-speak for 'in real life.' FYI.) Well, we tried last week, but he cancelled on me at nearly the last minute - "nearly" being the operative word, and sole reason I'm leaving my house in 46 minutes instead of deleting his emails.

This is my first date of 2007! I actually haven't been on a date for a much (much) longer time than that. Don't feel sorry for me - this ain't no pity party. I'm a choosy gal, and this Strange Dan person is by no means the only fellow to show a Match.com or IRL interest in me! (Mom, don't read the rest of this paragraph. I love you.) I mean, I even had some sex in the last few weeks, yay.

Ah, but there's the rub. DATING means: Going on Dates. Out in public. Having food together, drinking wine together. Conversing in slightly crowded watering holes. Checking out a band, a game, a show. And maybe, just maybe, wanting to smooch the other person at the end of the Date. And that is so foreign to me, so forgotten, I'm actually nervous at the thought of leaving the house in 37 minutes. And I do not get nervous. So I'm having a glass of wine before I meet Strange Dan for 'a glass of wine.'

I titled this blog entry PART ONE because I am so very hopeful that tonight might actually elicit a PART TWO. Even though my recent dating history would hardly fill a Post-It, I am looking forward to my Date in 28 minutes. I'm not putting this all on Strange Dan - if there's no chemistry, it's one glass of nice wine and off to Nod. I won't Date just to date. But this is the first new person in such a long time who is gambling, like I am. Who is also going out on a limb and meeting a total stranger to see if there's a connection. Who might even be a little bit nervous himself. Who might be so very aware of the passage of the next 24 minutes as well.

A last gulp of Sancerre rose, check for lipstick on the teeth, obsessive-compulsively feel-around for the keys in the purse, and I'm off. I'm leaving in 8 minutes (22 minutes before the Date) because it's 4 blocks and I'm wearing very high, very sexy heels.

What? Just because I haven't dated in ages doesn't mean I've forgotten how. :)

Oh, Seriously? You Gotta Be Kidding Me (PART TWO)

[This is part two of a two-part blog first published on my myspace page in 2007. Read it and weep.]

Seriously? Seriously??? SERIOUSLY?????? After all this time, the Dating Karma Gods were not inclined to send me a 'gimme,' huh?

And lest you immediately think that I was putting too much on this meeting with Strange Dan... the whole way there I was saying, like a mantra, "just have fun, no big whoop," and I found I really meant it. --Hold on, I have to go check the Equity website and see if the audition I was going to get up at the crack of ass for tomorrow (sorry, Mom, language,) is any other date as well so I can finish the rest of the bottle of the Sancerre rose as I fume here for a bit and then finally, eventually, relax by catching up on last night's installment of "The Riches" and whatever else my DVR has in store for me.

Done, there's a Thursday call too. Game on! So:

He walks in - looking not too far from what I was expecting. Good... I thought he'd be a bit taller, but I was wearing the sexy high heels. Not un-cute, amiable, I thought "okay!..." Seats at the crowded bar had opened up just after I arrived - a scant minute before he came in. (Hey, KARMA, thanks for the seats. I'd have preferred to stand...) He looked a bit casual for a Date - khaki shorts, polo shirt, sweater vest (well, he's no iron man so it looked even more casual than I would have thought...) but, well, now, in all fairness, I should tell you what I was wearing...

Sexy heels (we've been over that part.) Sexy designer grey/black skinny jeans. Black tank top with tie at waist. Nice black Calvin jacket (of the 'Anthem Calvin jacket's,) cute red bangles on wrist, silver hoop earrings, and Mom n' Dad-given emerald pinkie ring with tiny diamonds surrounding: it screams 'class,' it does. Point is --- I LOOKED HOT!!!! CASUAL YET PUT-TOGETHER, FUN YET SEXY, AND HHHHHHOOOOOTTTTTTTT!!!!!

But he looked fine, not awful, I mean it. (Just had to stress how comparitively hot yours truly was.)

Ok, so we start chatting about wine - he appreciated my choice at the wine bar (Mascarello Dolcetto D'Alba) and I was quizzing him about his work since it's such an unsual, seemingly interesting, and essential (!) job... well, a wee voice in the back of my brain was saying, "This guy's either really relaxed and casual, or he's drunk." Comes to pass that a big project was finished today and he'd gone out with co-workers four hours earlier and had had FIVE MARGUERITAS before meeting me. I was so taken aback that I don't know if I can spell 'marguerita' properly. (I keep trying and nothing looks right. Forgive me, Mom.) I mean, you all read the earlier blog, right?, you know I had one glass of wine to calm the nerves. ONE. I can't scream in caps louder - Ohh Ehnn Eeeee. One.

But, okay, like I posited earlier, maybe he was nervous, AND he was celebrating the end of a busy period at work... I'm soooooo generous. So we keep chatting. I start to become aware of this very silibant "sssss" at the end of some phrases. And I see his hands floppily gesticulating at each point he made. Now I'm thinking he's GAY. I-suddenly-can-see-him-sidling-up-to-my-gorgeous-gays-at-a-party-I'm-throwing-and-then-sneaking-back-to-the-bedroom, GAY. And then I think, well, maybe he's loopy. But then I think, while he's chatting away, that none of my gays would give this buffoon the time of day, so why the hell am I? But I am nice. And generous. And willing to give the guy a break.

So we keep talking. I ask a lot of questions. He asks... a couple of questions. I indulge my growing boredom while at the same time answering a rare question by telling the very interesting story of how Mom got me into the Mets. (Thanks, Mom, I love you!) I ask about this, I ask about that... and suddenly, before I know it, he starts up and I'm on this passionate defense of my industry and career as a whole. He's blasting the concept of Unions, and I'm trying to assert my critical yet supportive view of my relationship with mine. He is relentless and vehement, and I'm looking at this guy and thinking, "This is a Date?!?" He is coming at me from angles that make no sense and are righteous and this isn't a conversation and the bartender is all the way down at the end of the bar and my glass is empty, not like I want to stay but please help me dull the pain...

And he throws his Amex down on the bar. "Here," I go, reaching for my purse. He offers, "No, I got it." "Well, let me contribute!" I say cheerily. I pull out two twenties. He shoves them under the Amex, reaches in his pocket, pulls out a billfold, hands me a five, and says, "You're emasculating a Southern Gentleman, here."

AHHHH!!!! I think if he's a Southern Gentleman, he should push the two twenties back to me and insist it's on him! I'd take them back at that point. But HE GAVE ME CHANGE while tsk-tsk-ing me! And, also, I don't think that's emasculation. Emasculation is when you are drunk in a bar and you wantonly kiss a very cute guy who works for the circus, and you decide you don't think he's a very good kisser, so you give him KISSING LESSONS right there in the bar, complete with verbal instruction as well as practical application. In front of his friends and everybody. THAT'S emasculation, my friends. (But, Angus, it was worth it, right?!) (Oh, crap, Mom, you didn't read that last part, did you?)

Well, at least I was thrilled we were paying the bill. I gracefully said goodnight, thanks for the conversation (!?!?!?) and I hope to jehovah he didn't think I was cute. I teetered home on my sexy heels, put on the sweats, poured a glass o' vino, and here I am.

Let me just say, the guy who finally gets me - is going to be one lucky, fulfilled, adored, challenged, supported, sexually over-satisfied sonofabitch.