You seem nice, but please stop planning our wedding.

Matty suggested we meet at the Cheesecake Factory. Which is interesting because I had been craving the avocado eggrolls for about a week. From our phone conversation I knew he was an attorney, funny, a big Disneyland fan, and had his own online dating stories (the one about the little person is a classic). If nothing else, he seemed like someone with whom I could be friends.  When I arrived he was seated at a high top table at the bar, drinking a Bud Light. I took this as a good sign, clearly he doesn't have a problem with less than great beer.

Over his beer, my red wine, and a plate of the avocado eggrolls (his suggestion, not mine) we talked about Disneyland, work, families, moving to California- he's a transplant too-, the horse races, and how his roommate met her boyfriend online. He also told me about his mother, complete with an imitation of her Indian accent, asking him "Matty, if you are gay. Just tell me. It's okay, I will still love you." because he is last unmarried sibling.

I can actually relate to this. Not because my mother is Indian, concerned about my sexuality, or trying to marry me off. I'm actually pretty sure she and my Dad high-fived after hearing that my former flame and I called it quits. But, rather because my grandmother seems concerned that when I decide to settle down there will no more men left on the planet to marry.

Here's how that conversation with my Grandmother went;

Mamaw: How's your love life?
Me: About the same as it always is. Lots of Mr. Right-Nows, no Mr. Right.
Mamaw: Well you know Crigger-Chan, when you decide to settle down they might all be gone?
Me confused: Where are they going?

If Matty told me once, he said it five times that he was "shocked no one had snatched me up."  Which is very flattering, don't get me wrong.  Matty also mentioned that his mother would love me if we ever met. He's not wrong, parents always like me. Ask my friends from high school. If they told their parents I was going it became immediately acceptable for them to go as well. He talked about his sister's recent wedding and the lecture his mother gave him about working out and dressing nicely so he could find a wife.

On a side note, he seemed pretty fit, I didn't make him do a fitness test or anything, and his clothing all matched, but maybe that was luck of the draw...

He wasn't asking me how many bridesmaids we should have or what flower arrangements we should get, but the more Matty and I talked, the more I could sense that we are in different places in our lives. He wants to meet someone, fall in love, and start a life with her. Yesterday.

I want those things too. After my year of 52 dates.

Best. First. Date. Ever. Period.

Have you ever had a first date that was so good you just remember a feeling of warmth that spread through your chest and made your fingertips tingle? The soundtrack playing in your mind is just a muddled cocktail of laughter, snippets of songs you sang along to, car horns, and random nonsensical tidbits about another person that out of context don't make sense? The smells that still cling to the inside of your nose and transports you back is beer, fresh air mixed with tar, and the clean scent of laundry detergent that wafts ever so faintly as you bend your heads close to answer trivia questions?

The picture you see in your mind isn't the whole picture, but rather a smattering of small things that make up the other person. It is a bottom tooth slightly overlapping another. It is a fleck of gray hair that shows up only in the bright sunlight. It is a straight nose, unlike my own more, ahem, shall we say regal nose? Its long fingers that flatten out on the end and leave me wondering if it is hard to tap the letters on an iPhone key pad.

All these things crystallized in my mind make up the other person, but leave me remembering him as though he were drawn in charcoal and smudged around the edges.    

I know we talked. There was never an awkward silence. But I don't really remember what was said. I remember snippets and moments. I did tell him about my brief, but glorious career as an archeologist as we wondered through the La Brea tar pits. And that I was the two-time state geology champion. He told me about his research, his godfather, that it makes him sad to think his children might grow up in LA and not have the chance to play in creeks, climb trees, get dirty, and catch lightening bugs. He didn't think I was crazy for having a sister who isn't actually related to me. But there were five more hours that we filled up with conversation that passed in the blink of an eye.

I heard myself saying I needed to be heading home, but not actually wanting to leave.

It was a first date that felt nothing like a first date.

Get a mitt and catch a clue... I'm just not that into you.

Being raised in the South by a mother who taught Emily Post everything she knows, I often find it difficult to be anything less than extremely tactful in social situations.  While this leads to good first impressions, successful job interviews, and people generally liking me, it also gets me into sticky situations with men in whom I am not interested.

I smile, which men mistake for enjoyment, but really the corners of my mouth just always turn up. Some people have angry resting features. Not me, my face is like that of a clown's with a smile painted on. I can be sobbing or running, and I am still smiling. Plus, I'll try anything once (except bad clothes) and find myself on first dates with people I know I am not interested in because I know it takes courage to ask someone out. I am too polite to leave a date in the middle (except for one time when I climbed out a window). At the end social convention has me trained to say, "I had a nice time", because I did have a relatively nice time compared to spending the evening in the ER getting treatment for a shark bite.

I really think it is the word "nice" that gets me into trouble. Add my accent full of "nices" that sound more like "niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice" and people think I am flirting. Not to mention that in the South, the word "nice" has a different meaning than it does in other parts of the country.  Allow me to explain.

Non-Southern Lady: She is a nice girl.
Translation: She is a nice girl.
Southern lady: She is a nice girl.
Translation: She is far beneath me and I will plaster on a fake smile and suffer through it, but the only way she'll get into the Junior League is stepping over my dead body. *Ghetto finger snapping and pursed lips are also implied in this statement*


...So at the end of my date with Sonny* what do I say when he says "I had fun."

You guessed it.
"I had a nice time..." Relative to being forced to watch an art installation piece where a lady gives birth in front of a live audience. Yes, this was nicer than that would have been.


The following day when Sonny* texted me, "I had a nice time with you last night. Would you like to make plans to get together another evening coming up?"

I waited a solid 36 hours before replying with, "I had a nice time too, but I am really busy this week and next and don't have time to get together." Hoping he would read this between between my polite lines. Let's face it buddy, if I was really into you I would find time in my busy schedule to see you.

Thirty seconds later, Sonny* has replied. "Let's plan something for the week of the 12th."

I choose to ignore that text.

Two days later I got "How's your day going?"

I also ignored that text.

Three days after that I got a phone call, which I let go to voicemail.

 As you read this imagine that someone is pinching his chin and pulling his lips back as he talks so he kind of hisses. "Heeeeey, this is Sonny*. It's Thursday over here, about 7:00. My number is 555.888.1313. I'll talk to you soon."

Is it not Thursday where I am? Don't we live in the same county? I clearly have your phone number since I responded to a text message. And really, do you honestly think will you talk to me soon? I haven't responded to three texts which would take all of 30 seconds. I doubt I'll be returning your call.

And shock of shocks; I didn't call him back. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. After all it was only one date. Why call him only to tell him "It's not me. It's you." That just seems mean.

The following Monday I get another text.

"Hey. How was your weekend? Would you like to make plans for an evening this week?"

If I wanted to make plans with you I would have. A WEEK AGO. Do you not understand you are getting the brush off here? Seriously, three unanswered text messages and an unreturned phone call? Clearly you have not seen He's just not that into you? Or if you did, you learned nothing from it. Watch it. You might learn something. The same principles apply to gals!

I decide I have to text him back, if only to put him out of his misery and to stop him from blowing up my phone with his texts and voice-mails. My mom, a.k.a. Emily Post said telling him "I'm just not interested in you." was too blunt and mean even if I use my thickest accent.

"Well how about telling him you are joining a nunnery?"
"Can't. My Match.com profile says I'm protestant."
"Well drat!"
"Yep, because that is a likely story. Young lady moves to California, breaks up with boyfriend, has a bad date and joins a nunnery." 

I went with a simple text to avoid lying directly to someone's ear.

"Sonny, I'm really sorry, but I don't think I am ready to be dating. I am still attached to someone from my past."

Send = Problem solved.

Or not.

Within two minutes you-know-who was blowing up my phone. Worried about what I would find on the other end of the line I let it go to voice-mail. And promptly blocked him on Match.com so he couldn't see my newly updated profile...

The next day I get this text message.

"Hey Crigger-chan, keep my number and let me know when you might be ready to date again."

Yes, I will keep your number. For screening purposes.

I Think Yatch!

When Rex messaged me on Match.com I wasn't blown away by his picture. In fact it kind of scared me. He had assumed what I like to think of as the football player pose; crossed arms and a fight face. All that seemed to be missing were pads and a helmet. But his opening line showed he had read my profile so I clicked through his pictures. Lots of pictures of him on a boat (I like boats), one of him on a child's tricycle (shows his playful side I guess), and some miscellaneous ones, including the dreaded mirror photo. Despite the fraught with trouble mirror photo, and probably because of the goofy photo on a tricycle, I emailed him back. We messaged back and forth and eventually he asked for my phone number. As he didn't seem psychotic I gave it to him.

We then texted for a few days. To be honest, I prefer texting, having been really put off by the first two prospects voices. Plus, it has a much less serious air to it. If he turns out to be crazy I can pretend he is just a book and close that chapter. Hearing a voice makes the person on the other side of the line seem more real. Via text I learn that he has a boat. And by boat, I mean yacht. It has three bedrooms and two bathrooms. I also learn he likes hockey (he's Canadian, eh), doesn't know much about college basketball (we all have our flaws), and thinks I am funny (clearly he has a good sense of humor).

So... we make plans to meet one evening after my yoga class. This is all strategy on my part. The later I push the start time of a date, the less time I actually have to spend with him should he be awful. I mean, he owns a yacht and a house on the beach, he is probably insufferably snobby, right?

Wrong-o, Crigger-chan. He is nothing but lovely!

In my usual fashion I end up running late to meet him. I totally miscalculated how long it would take me to get home from yoga, shower, pull myself together, and actually get to the restaurant. By 8:00 I realize I am going to be late. Really late actually, since I was supposed to be at the restaurant already. I text him, saying "I'm really sorry, but I'm running late, but will be there by 8:30."

To which he responds, "Take your time. No big deal. :)"

The smiley face was his, not mine.

Whaaaaaaaat?! You aren't mad at me for being late? It isn't the end of the world that I am running behind? You realize that good things come to those who wait? You see that I am someone worth waiting on? Rex, at this point you could look like Quasimodo's ugly brother and I might not care. At least not tonight.

I arrive at the restaurant and find him waiting outside. He opens the door, lets me pick the seat (unlike some people...) doesn't even flinch when I order nice bourbon and then proceed to eat a sizable helping of sushi and sashimi. We chatted about everything with no awkward pauses. He was interesting and smart, and as far from snobby as you can get! Which was surprising given the size of his yacht.

He even seemed to enjoy my detail laden stories, or at least he faked his interest well. I have dated people in the past that didn't enjoy my variety of story-telling. The first time that man told me to "cut to the chase" I should have cut out the door. We stayed at the restaurant until closing time chatting with the bartender about my favorite topic, Kentucky. And when the valet brought his keys to him, he tipped him handsomely. I find it immensely attractive when people are generous and kind to waiters, valets, service clerks, etc...

When the bill came and I asked, "What's the damage?" He snatched it away and replied, "No damage!"

What? We aren't going dutch? You aren't trying to take me home? This is a good first date.





 

Dating Site Don'ts 101: Pictures

I have spent alot of time perusing online dating sites. Between Match.com and OkCupid! my chances of running across profiles that make me shake my head in amazement are staggeringly high. So to help people who hope to land someone like me (and really, who wouldn't? I'm pretty great.)or someone in general I have compiled a few suggestions.

Pictures

• Actually include a picture. The one guy who messaged me and knew what Ale-8 was really had me hooked. However, because he didn't have a photo I automatically assumed he looked like Quasimoto's much less attractive brother. He explained the no picture as "being new to the site and was still trying to decide on a picture." EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Wrong answer. Now I assume you are self absorbed and only want your glamor shot up on your profile. Take 10 minutes, crop out your ex, and click upload. Your dating life (and maybe me) will thank you.
• As superficial as it is, if your picture isn't good I'm not interested. Now, I don't mean that you have to look like Brad Pitt's twin (however, if you do please call me). Choose photos that look like you, but you at your best. (i.e. the picture should be in focus, you should be smiling, have your eyes open,  and not of the back of your head). I need to be able to recognize you at the bar, so this is in your best interest.
• There should be at least one close up of you. ALONE. I am not going to dig through ten photos of you with three other people cross-referencing them to figure out which one is you.
• Take off the hat and sunglasses. For all I know, that is your cousin Eddie.
• The photo of you with three others girls, unless it is tagged sister, mom, and grandma, should stay safely in your iPhoto cache. 
•  If your photo just includes your body, please re-examine that decision when the smoke has cleared. It's one thing to want to stay anonymous, but cropping out your head might not be the way to go. Even if you could be Matthew McConaughey's body double, cutting out your head leads me to assume you are a butterface. As in, every thing looks good but-the-face. Honestly, even if you could pass for Tyson Beckford you should probably place the flexing, oiled up, body shot back around photo 3 or 4. Or better yet, keep your clothes on. Leave something to the imagination.
• And for the love of all things dating don't take a picture of yourself in the mirror holding your phone. You look like a moron. A moron who is trying to be sexy photographing themselves in the bathroom. No one wants to date that. Call up a buddy and have them snap a photo for you.

$10

On the occasional Friday, I head over to a bar affectionately known as O's. It's your standard variety Irish Bar, albeit with football memorabilia hanging from the rafters and covering every available surface. By football, I mean American football, not soccer, which would be the expected choice in an Irish bar. That, or cricket bats hanging everywhere. Though that could prove dangerous... Providing drunk Irish-wannabes with bats seems like a bad idea.

FYI, cricket is not the "good craic" that my Commonwealth-y* friends promised it to be. It is boring, lasts for days-- literally--, and has ridiculous rules. I say this as someone who has actually watched the sport. I spent the longest two hours of my life watching a match from the window of my broken down bus in India. The sweltering heat probably didn't do a great deal to endear the sport to me.

Anyway, back to O's. The "regulars" that frequent O's are quite a motley crew. It really is a "Where everybody knows your name" kind of place and not because the guys still have on work shirts with their names across the pocket. Unfortunately, the bartender doesn't look like Ted Danson, he could pass for his great-grandfather though.  Aside from us, there are lawyers, office workers, construction workers, techy nerdy guys (swoon), the random straggler (who for some unknown reason often ends up at our table...), and the guy who helped me move a chair into my storage unit when my old very helpful boyfriend refused.

It is a veritable OC Melting Pot.

Unfortunately, for me I am more often than not melting with Mr. Not-Quite-Right. I'm not sure what it is about this particular bar that makes men stick to me like lint on my favorite black pants. It certainly isn't because I have worn my cutest outfit and freshened up my make-up. By Friday I am usually haggard looking and often dirty as I tend to save all my climbing around in electrical rooms for the end of the week as prep work for the next week. Could be that I am often in the biological minority? Or that I am at a table of dudes who are clearly not in the boyfriend camp? (According to the wise people at Seventeen magazine this makes me seem like a fun girl who can be just one of the guys. I was reading Seventeen in line at Ralph's, stop judging). Maybe it's the bad lighting?  Whatever I am putting out, Mr. Wrong is loving.  

Note to self: figure out what that is and change it. Immediately.

On this particular Friday I am standing at the bar ordering a pitcher of Coor's Light. That's right, we are fancy. I also order myself a cider since I can only drink so much mildly-beer flavored water. Great, now I sound like Sonny Macaulay.

While I wait on the pitcher and my cider another patron whose name I never bothered to find out asks me where my "lovely accent is from?"

I wanted to say "Behind the at on preposition street," but decided not to be snarky since he did seem nice. I reply, "Kentucky."

"Kentucky! What are you doing out here?"
"I took a new job out here a few months ago. Where are you from?"
"Guess," he says while migrating down a few bar stools closer to me.

Really dude? This is your line. Guess where I am from, strange girl in the bar? I JUST told you I JUST moved to California. I can find three things; my apartment, my office, the beach! Frankly, it's a little unfair to count the beach as you simply drive west and eventually you will hit it.

"Ummm... Are you from California?"
"Yeah, but where?"
"Orange county?" Seriously... we are playing the where am I from guessing game? Third grade called, they want their game back. By now the beer has arrived, but my cider is still no where in sight. I contemplate surrendering it just to get away from Guess-My-Town-Man, but realize I haven't paid and don't really want to be asked to leave the bar because I have stolen a pitcher of beer.

"Telling you the county makes it too easy. I'll tell you I'm from Southern California."
"San Diego? Santa Barbara?"
"Between the two."

Grrrreat... You have given me about 350 square miles from which to pick a place from where you might be. Gee, this is really so much fun stranger at the bar. 

"City of Orange? Dana Point? Encino?"
"Closer with City of Orange."
Thank goodness the bill finally arrived and I hand the bartender my debit card.

"Ok. How about this?" says Mr. Wrong as he pulls a $10.00 bill from his wallet. "If you can guess the city I am from I'll give you ten bucks."

Now we are cooking with gas. At least I stand to gain $10 for suffering through this spectacle, which will buy to pitcher's of Coor's Light...

"Tustin? Irvine? Rancho Margarita? Los Angeles?"
"Closer to LA, but you have to get it right to win the money"
"Glendale? Monrovia? Santa Monica? I really don't know anywhere else...Oh wait, Pasadena?"

This is becoming exhausting and the $10 is growing less appealing. Remember, I have a table full of guys who could have come to rescue me at any time. Did they? NO. They preferred to laugh at me and claim it looked like I was having fun.

"Nope."

At this moment Jorge arrives at my side and offers to take the pitcher of beer back to the table.
"Don't leave me!" I hiss as he walks away.

So there I am waiting on my cider, which has been paid for, but never materializes because Rip Van Bartender has forgotten about it apparently. I feel like Danny Zukko when he sings Stranded at the Drive-In. Except I am not the one being branded as a fool.

Left with no other option I say, "Is it north LA county?"
"No, it's southwestish. There is an exit for it off the 5."
"Hmmm... Is it Inglewood?"
"No, do I look like gangster?"
"I have no idea what LA gangster look like. I'm new here."

"Oh Darling! I'm sorry I forgot your cider!" exclaims Rip Van Bartender.
Yes, you did and I now hold you responsible for the worst bar pick-up of my life. Instead I say "Yes you did, but I knew you would remember eventually!" *Thicker accent that usual, plus big smile*

"Alright, well it has been nice talking to you. I better get back to my friends." I say stepping away from the bar.
"You still haven't figured out where I am from! One more guess!"
I'm sorry you are under the impression that I care...
"I really have guessed every place I know the name of out here."
"It begins with a D."
"Downey?" I say more because I am going through what I need from the store than actually guessing.
"Yep! I'm from Downey."
"Alright. Give me my money."
"It took you too many guesses."
"That wasn't part of the deal."
"Okay, tell you what. I will use this $10 to buy you a drink."
"I already have a drink."
"Fine I'll buy you your next one."
"There won't be a next one. I have to drive home."
"Alright. I'll save this $10 and buy you a drink when I see you here next week."

Oh goody! I can't wait. Can we then play guess what car I drive or when I was born?


*Commonwealth-y applies to the Queen's Commonwealth, not the Kentucky Commonwealth. I know alot of you thought I was talking about the great bluegrass state. Understandably so, we are crazy about cricket.

Right on... Right on...

In true Crigger-get-back-up-on-that-horse fashion I went on my first Match.com date last night.  It is unlikely that this cowgirl will be riding off into the sunset with the Macaulay Culkin look alike. Especially since he was not even cute Kevin McCallister Macaulay... He was more weird, married at 17, suing my parents Macaulay.

I arrive early to the restaurant where we are meeting for drinks, being that I prefer to be fashionably late, especially on a semi-blind date, I use this time to make sure that my escape plan is in order. My friend from work has agreed to call at 7:45 with an "emergency" should Sonny* be more than I can take. I roll into the restaurant a little after 7:00 and Sonny*, who you might remember from the last post, has yet to arrive despite his text asking "R U here yet?"

Strike One. You initiated this buddy, not me, the least you can do is be on time.

Shortly there after, he walks in. And I do mean shortly. His profile claims he is 5'8" and in my 1.5 inch heels we were seeing eye to eye. I'm 5'2, you do the math. Outside of his less than average height, (which is fine, I'm not one to throw stones at the vertically challenged... But I never claimed to be Heidi Klum's height! He could have at least had the good sense to wear some Man-heels!) his hair was styled ala Kevin McCallister singing Christmas carols in his parent's bathroom. Except it isn't slicked back. I never knew hair could be so aerodynamic, yet fluffy with no product. I half expect him to start singing into a comb he pulls from his back pocket. Oh, and he is dressed in all black, which makes him appear to glow. Now, I am pale, but I have actually been in the sun beforeand I slap on some rouge when I'm headed out so I don't blend in with walls! Maybe the all black wardrobe is a nod to Twilight? Maybe he wants to seem slimmer? Perhaps he just came from mime class?

So the Good Son puts his arms out to hug me, which if he knew me at all, he would know I don't like to be touched by strangers. But having no other option that to reciprocate, we had a very awkward hug. Things are clearly off to a stellar start.

We grab seats in the bar area, not actually at the bar, which was my preference (the bartender was cuuuute so at least I would have had some eye candy), but at a table in the bar area.

Strike Two. I'm your date, if I want to sit at the bar, then sit at the bar.

A waiter arrives and after discovering that they have Woodford Reserve I regain some hope that all isn't lost. Sonny* orders a beer. Our drinks arrive. As the waiter is walking away Sonny* realizes he has been brought the wrong beer. Or so he thinks. He calls the waiter back over and the waiter very politely tells him this is, in fact, the beer he ordered, but if he doesn't want it he can bring him something else. Sonny* tries it, proceeds to go on this speal about how he is a "beer guy" and that  he CAN NOT drink bad beer. Give me a break dude, you're drinking a really nice microbrew IPA, it isn't a Natty Light. By now the waiter is gone and so is a third of the sub-par beer. I guess it took him a third of the glass to realize he didn't like it, as he then flags down the waiter and has him bring him a different beer.

Strike Three. You ordered the beer, you then drank a third of it, and now you want a different one? Come on.

Now that everyone has a beverage with which they are pleased as punch, the conversation starts flowing. And by flowing, I mean he is asking me tons of questions and interrupting the answers with "Right on. Right on."

"So do your parents live in California?"
"No, they live in Kentu--"
"Right on."
"--cky."
"Oh so you just moved out here alone? Isn't living so far away from your family hard?"
"Yes, but I've made big moves before. And of cour--"
"Right on. Right on..."
"--se I miss them."

GAHHHH!!!! And it just got worse.

FYI; We had actually had this conversation the night before on the phone.  Pay attention! Forgetting what I say isn't winning you any points. And why oh why would my parents move here with me? Furthermore, if your 31 and can't move more than 15 minutes from where you grew up, you probably aren't the guy for me.

But I put on my happy face and learn all about his parents, the business he started at 21 (which I will admit shows gumption and a good work ethic) his friend's crazy dog that bites, his ten year high school reunion, his job, and his $400K ONE-BEDROOM apartment that is nowhere near the beach.

**Seriously. You are going to drop $400K, IN CASH, on a one-bedroom in Irvine? You can buy a house in Huntington Beach for that!

As I am nearing the end of my drink and thinking "Oh yeah! I can go home and watch the Gossip Girl wedding and the Bachelor!" He drops this question...

"Do you want to come over and hang out for awhile?"

In my head I am thinking "NO WAY! You could be a serial killer. A rapist. Maybe Sonny* isn't even your real name. Or someone really strange who has every available surface in your apartment covered with action figures. Also, I'm not a lady of the evening who meets a guy for 60 minutes and then goes home with him. Oh, and the really big reason being that I don't actually want to spend anymore time in your presence."

However, aloud I say, "I have to be to work at 7:00am tomorrow and I like to go to the gym before work so I really should just go home. After all, 5:00a.m. will come early!"

To which he responds, "You can miss the gym for me!"

"No, I really, really can't."

So we ask for the check, and out of politeness, not actually because think he will let me pay for the drink I ask "What is the damage?"

"Well your bourbon was $11.00, so if you want to pay for that I'll put in the tax and tip."

Inner monologue: "WHAT! Dude you invited me out. And yes $11.00 for bourbon is pricey. But it was a healthy pour of Woodford! I would have been more than happy to pay for it had I not been on a date that I didn't initiate. And I could really do without your snarky attitude, Mr. Beer Guy!"

Actual dialogue: "Well why don't we just split it if you're putting in tax and tip? The total will be the same and less work for the waiter."

"Split it! Uhhhh..." It was as if I had asked to hit his car with a baseball bat (not that it would matter because he buys a new one every year, or so he says). "Oh, well I guess."

By the grace of God I am Southern, so I can say "I've had a nice time too" knowing full well that nice is the kiss of death.