Considering The Possibilities

20 08 2012

Time seemed to move slowly while I was waiting for the lawyer to read my blog and deliver his verdict. We kept up our email communication, but we did not see each other while he was digesting the information here on My Dating Prescription.

In the meantime, I had a distraction as my communication with My Stalker/Super Fan increased. Although I didn’t have the slightest clue who he was, he didn’t frighten me, so the stalker label didn’t exactly seem fair. However, unlike my other readers, to my knowledge, he never commented directly on the blog, and opted instead for sending me emails. They were slightly dirty-minded emails just funny enough or well written enough to skate the edge between sexy and creepy, but this alone seemed reason enough to let him retain the stalker label for the time being.

Regarding his identity, all I had to go on was a name, a zip code, and a bunch of emails that made me laugh out load, and not LOL, but REALLY laugh out load. My Stalker/Super Fan is hilarious. That’s one thing I do know about him for sure.

As I mentioned in Man #100, My Stalker/Super Fan and Therapy Thursday, as our emails increased I found myself more and more intrigued by him. I wanted to find out more, but because he seemed to like playing this mystery game with me, I found it difficult to ask the questions I wanted answered. And yet, there were times when he provided tangential personal information while still remaining anonymous.

For example, there was the time I questioned whether or not he was using his real name, and he scolded me for questioning him.

“I can’t believe you have the cojones to call me out on my name. I accept your nom de plume and your anonymity. My Mom’s name is …, [and he included her phone number] if you have any questions about her Dear Son…”

I’m sure he was bluffing. He knew there was no way I was going to call his mother. What would I say?

“Yes, hello Mother Stalker. My name is Wilma, and I’m calling because your son, My Stalker/Super Fan, gave me your number so I could call and ask you questions about him. You don’t know me yet, but you will, because in a couple of years when I finally finish dating 100 men on this prescription that my crazy therapist gave me, your son has hatched an elaborate plan to make me fall in madly in love with him.

Yes, uh huh. That’s what he said,…madly in love yes. I wouldn’t make that up. No. I see. He’s always had an active imagination? Ok.

Well, he gave me your phone number, and I was wondering if you could please confirm some information for me. No,…no, ma’am, I’m not a telemarketer. No, I can’t actually take your number off of the Do Not Call List, because I don’t have the list…No ma’am. I would never ask for his social security number. I was thinking more along the lines of how old he is and what he does for a living. Is he a good son? Does he call you regularly? …What’s that?

He has other people call you?

Strange women named things like Wilma…I see. Well, thank you for your time. Have a good day. Yeah, you too. Ok. Ba bye now.”

Yeah,…no.

He knew I wouldn’t call her. I did, however, do a reverse look up of the number on 411.com and confirmed that the person living at that number had the same last name as My Stalker/Super Fan.

See. Tangential. I think he totally expected me to do a little research. Apparently, if I want to know who he is I will have to work for it.

I started to consider all of the possible scenarios. You can get an email address for any name you want these days, and identity theft runs rampant. Once he had the email address, he could just look up a phone number for people with the same last name on the internet.

As the information we shared via email became more personal, however, I started to worry more about the fact that My Stalker/Super Fan could be anyone. What if he was someone I had already dated who was trying to mess with me? What if he was one of my classmates from my MBA program? Or worse. What if he was one of my professors? He could even be a husband of one of my married friends, and I might never know. The point is, I don’t know who he is, but I started running through all of the possibilities.

Over a year ago, I had tried to inquire about his age, and the only information I got was,

“I am older than you, and can teach you much if you are willing to listen Grasshopper. I’m number 100. Boys first, men last.”

See, funny, but the mystery is frustrating to say the least.

Recently, I asked him his age again, and he finally told me he is 63 and old enough to be my father. However, he added that I didn’t need to call him Daddy.

Great. Thanks.

He is actually several months older than my mom. To be fair, my mother was pretty young when she had me. I am 44.

I’m less concerned about chronological age and more interested to know about his health and joie de vivre. As some of my recent dates have proven, while one man can be my age and seem like a grumpy old man another could be active and a lot of fun. I tried to ask My Stalker/Super Fan for more information on this, but he seemed annoyed by it, and replied,

“Have I given you reason to question my cognition? I do 45 minutes of cardio daily at a heart rate of 85% of max for 30 year old. Perhaps if your questions were more specific. Like…CAN YOU STILL GET IT UP?”

I explained that, yes, besides the fact that I had dated some men younger than him who were fuddie duddies lately, I was also very interested to know, when date #100 finally came, if I would be able to ride him like a pony without giving him a heart attack.

I mean, just because I haven’t had any sex lately doesn’t mean I don’t like sex. I’m just picky about who I have sex with. In fact, at this point, I have a lot of pent up energy, A LOT of pent up energy. I could seriously hurt someone, especially an old man with a shoddy ticker.

His response,

“Fuddy duddy? I’m strong, fit, and tan. You can do chin ups on my hard on. I don’t need Viagra. Besides, do you have any idea what that shit’s made of? It’s half Miracle Grow and half Fix-A-Flat.”

See. Funny, but it also put an end to my inquiry.

One of my friends was mortified when I told her his age, and said, “He should be dating women my mom’s age, but my mom says all the guys her age want women our age. The 80 year old men are the ones interested her, and she says all they want is a purse or a nurse.”

My mom and stepdad were less concerned and cited successful relationships they knew where a similar age difference existed.

Sam and Really Really Nice Guy had opinions too.

“Tell her about your stepmom,” Sam said.

“She’s 57 and my dad is 75. They’ve been together for about ten years,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “but now my dad has Alzheimer’s.”

“So she’s taking care of him,” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Well, My Stalker/Super Fan told me he’s really fit,” I said, and I told them what he said about his exercise routine.

“Well, my dad was really fit too,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “he ran every day, and every morning he ate oatmeal. He’d make his bowl of oatmeal, line up thirty different vitamins on the counter, and put lecithin on his cereal. Now, look at him. He doesn’t even know who his wife is.”

“Wow,” I said, “So, what are you saying? That even if My Stalker/Super Fan has the endurance to stick around to be Man #100, I’ve only got 10 to 15 good years with him tops?”

“Yep, probably,” Sam said.

I had to think about that.

I want to know what you think.

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Man #32, Ye Olde Bachelor

19 08 2012

After the emotional roller coaster I put myself through over Man #31, I still had the problem of telling him about the blog and getting his reaction to reading it before proceeding with a second date. Reasons 11 and 12 of my 13 reasons for Man #31 not to date me were:

11.   After my husband left, I started writing a blog called My Dating Prescription of which I doubt you would approve.

12.   I use profanity liberally, not so much on a daily basis in the way I speak, but in the writing of the above blog.  I also get the impression that you would want a woman who is a little more lady-like.

So, after Man #31 read my 13 reasons not to date me and said he would still like to go out with me again, I insisted that he take a look at the blog and try to get a sense of what exactly he would be getting himself into. These days, it takes a little while to get through the blog. I’ve written 127 blog posts and most of my posts are between 800 and 1200 words. That’s anywhere from 100,000 and 150,000 words. Let’s face it. This dating prescription is starting to feel like a dating epic.

Anyway, while I waited for Man #31’s reaction and questions, I continued on my dating journey.

I had received an email from a man who said he was an active 47-year-old engineer. He was an avid cyclist, so the tale I recount on my online dating profile of my bicycle crash on Lake Washington Boulevard a few years ago had caught his attention. He had apparently had a similar crash, but, rather than landing on his head like I had done, he landed on his hip and broke it.

And, no, landing on my head does not account for my mental state. I’ve always been a little twisted. This isn’t something recent.

Anyway, Man #32 could sympathize with my extended physical therapy experience, and after we talked bikes, he asked me out on a date.

Even through his emails, however, I got a vibe that he was not very adventurous, maybe even a little OCD. He had never been married nor had any children, and it felt like he liked things a certain way, probably a little too uptight for me. Regardless, it was just a date, right?

His desire for control revealed itself more when we started to plan where we were going to go on our date. Although he asked for my suggestions, which I supplied, he promptly vetoed them and decided he wanted to meet at Latona Pub. He did not live in Seattle, but he had gone to Latona Pub before, and apparently, felt comfortable there. I’m willing to go just about anywhere as long as a man isn’t asking me to go eat glorified fast food, like Red Robin or Azteca, so I agreed.

We were supposed to meet at 6 p.m., and I arrived before Man #32. The pub was crowded, so I had to sit at the bar between two handsome men in their thirties. Poor me. While deciding on my beer, I struck up a conversation with both of them. They both recommended the stout, and although I don’t usually drink stouts in the summertime, I went ahead and followed their recommendations.

Man #32 arrived and instead of looking 47 he looked 57. He was wearing a brown silk t-shirt, a tan blazer, and khaki pants. His fiery red hair, although mostly missing on the top, had been sculpted up to a height of about an inch and a half above his scalp and then combed back to cover what was a very large bald spot. The whole thing was sort of see-through, and yet, with the light behind him, it glowed, like a fiery orange halo.

Since Ye Olde Bachelor had arrived, we were able to get a table. I said goodbye to my thirty-something companions. They sort of looked at the two of us as if they could tell we were on a first date, and I suddenly felt self-conscious. Even after we were seated, I noticed people looking at us, like maybe they were wondering what brought the two of us together. I typically get comments that I look 8 years younger than my age, and he clearly looked much older than most 47 year olds.

I always wonder how much men lie about their age.

When we started to order food, Ye Olde Bachelor commented on the restrictive diet he follows, and I started to wonder if that was the reason why his skin looked so old. He made me feel uncomfortable about choosing what I wanted from the menu. He wanted to share something, but then, he was restricted on what he was willing it eat.

It was a fucking pain in the ass if you want to know the truth.

Now, it’s not that I have to have my way all the time. I really don’t, but I started thinking that if a man can’t even give up enough control on a first date to let a woman order what she wants off a bar menu, what would a relationship with him be like? I’ve had experiences where a man ordered my meal for me and it was wonderful. When I was in Rome, for example, I had dinner with a handsome Italian man, and letting him order for me, so I could experience things I didn’t know, was fabulous.

However, Ye Olde Bachelor ordered the chicken quesadilla.

Oh yey!

Throughout the date I made polite conversation, but I was never able to relax. His mannerisms and questions just seemed very uptight and judgemental, and quite frankly, I was not attracted to him at all what with the orange halo and all.

As we left the bar, he walked me towards my car and asked if he could have my email address. He wanted to stay in touch. This is where I did that thing guys do when they say, “I’ll call you.”

I said, “I’ll email it to you.”

“Ok,” he said.

I walked away, got in my car, and drove home. Later than night, I sent Ye Olde Bachelor an email through OkCupid thanking him for the date. I did not include my personal email address.

The next day, I received an email from him. He said,

“I guess since you did not give your email address and/or phone number you don’t want to pursue it further. It’s OK, I thought you were nice but not a strong vibe, huh?”

Rather than just leave him hanging in silence, I responded,

“I had a nice time, but with further thought, felt there were some areas where we differ enough that it would difficult to pursue a relationship.  Thanks for meeting me though.  I had a nice evening and I enjoyed our conversation.”

Onward.

Photo here.





You Want to Interview Me?

19 08 2012

Online dating sucks, and, yet, I keep doing it. It remains the easiest way for a woman my age to meet men. However, sometimes I just have to shake my head and wonder.  Where do these winners come from?

Actually, this guy said he was from Brooklyn, New York. It is my belief that he is employing a method I like to call “spray and pray.” Basically, he sends out the same email to hundreds of different women and waits to see who bites. This is the email I received from him through OkCupid yesterday, and because it made me laugh, I decided to share it.

“I saw your profile and was captivating and begin to ask my self what an angel in disguise….lol… well for ur information am writing an essay on beautiful things….so u need to interviewed by me……I Must Confess That You Are An Appealing Sight To See….Could I Have The Honor Of Knowing You if you dont mind?? We could get to chat and get to know eachother more better.”

I don’t know. Something tells me he’s not really a writer, but maybe my readers know more better than I. What do you think?





Are You Trying to Make Me Like You?

17 08 2012

Over the past year and a half, I’ve recounted my dating adventures, but I haven’t written much about the hundreds of emails I have exchanged with men in order to set up these dates. It’s kind of ridiculous. I would have a panic attack if I actually started tracking the numbers on the emails and texts needed just to set up one date.

It’s like when you’re in sales. You need 200 prospects a week, 60 contacts, which might result in 10 appointments, and hopefully, if all goes well, 2 sales.

It’s fucking exhausting is what it is.

Then you get these guys who want to send a hundred one-sentence emails or texts, and it starts to feel less like dating and more like work.

Case in point:

The Characters:

Short, Italian Man (SIM) – a real Italian, from Italy, not one of those Jersey Italians who don’t even pronounce their Italian surnames with the correct Italian pronunciation. (Yes, I’m talking to you, Teresa Giudice.)

Tall, Buxom Woman (ME) – a Viking, blogger, and mom, short on time and patience and long on sarcasm and expletives.

The Scenario:

SIM originally started sending me messages in April, but because I was mostly unavailable due to my MBA coursework, I put him off until after graduation. Then, with summer activities, work, and time that I wanted to spend with my kids, I put him off some more. I have to give him credit for perseverance.

A couple of months ago, he emailed me and asked me for my phone number so we could text. I sent him a message and said,

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I don’t like giving my number out to men I haven’t met yet, and texting is the fastest way to piss me off.”

Yes, this is how straightforward I have become. Rather than let these men fuck it up on their own I like to give them a warning. I’m a busy woman, and I don’t have time to play with my phone all day long, and when men can spend all day texting, it makes me wonder if they have a job.

Fast forward to the other day and SIM asked me for my phone number again, so we could “flirt” through texting. This is apparently his idea of fun. I wasn’t too excited by this idea at all since the last Italian who flirted with me through texting made a surprise reference to his c&%k, but since SIM and I have finally scheduled our first date for Wednesday next week, I figured it was time to exchange phone numbers.

I like to get a guy’s phone number just ahead of a date in case one of us is running late or can’t find the other at our meeting place.

I felt the need to warn him a second time about my impatience with texting. I basically said I don’t like it so don’t abuse it.

The Result:

Last night I received a text while I was meeting with my wine club (I mean book club.)

SIM: and this is my number. ciao

This morning…

ME: Ok. Thanks. I didn’t see your text until really late last night. I didn’t think you would want me texting you at 11:30 p.m.

This afternoon…

SIM: yep. it s you…sorry your number was not iny phone, and didn’t memorize it 🙂 …

ME: That’s ok. My phone doesn’t know who you are yet either.

SIM: then i guess we are two strangers

ME: As far as our phones are concerned, yes.

SIM: is this Wilma?

(WTF? Who the fuck did he think he was texting? Apparently, I am one of many…and so is he. He has no idea. Mwah ha ha. )

ME: As tempted as I am to fuck with you and say no…yes, this is Wilma.

SIM: lol…(I hate when men use lol. Actually, I hate when anyone uses lol. What are you? Twelve?)

SIM: listen to you so innocent looking with hot legs 😉 and using the f word 🙂

(Oh god, just stab me in the eyeball with a sharp stick, please.)

ME: You just don’t know me yet.

SIM: sweet and naughty is a good mix 🙂 (Insert Beavis and Butthead laugh here.)

ME: Does dropping an f-bomb make me naughty? I thought it just made me foul-mouthed.

SIM: you got a point 🙂 …let me hope 🙂 lol

(Ok dude, enough with the fucking smiley faces already.)

ME: You can hope, but you should never assume.

SIM: well assuming is ok when you hope to bw proven wrong 🙂

ME: So you’re hoping I’m not naughty?

SIM: no! i am hoping you are 🙂

ME: Then wouldn’t you hope to be proven right?

SIM: i can see you have been paying attention!

ME: I”m very detail-oriented and it’s hard to not pay attention when my phone keeps beeping at me.

SIM: i should stop …you specifically asked me not to flood your phone

ME: Yeah, I can understand the excitement, given that is has taken over four months for us to get to the first date but it would be a shame to mess it up now.

SIM: yep. ok, i will be mindful don’t worry. enjoy the weekend 🙂

ME: You too.

I’m supposed to meet him next Wednesday. Is it wrong of me to feel intellectually superior at this point? I’m a little worried that he was beating off while telling me he hopes I’m a naughty girl.





Man #31, The Defense Rests

15 08 2012

When it comes to online dating, it’s rare for me to reach out and send the first message. I hate doing it even though plenty of guys have told me they like when a woman makes the first move. It’s not my thing. I just don’t like doing it.

Then one night I was cruising through the profiles on OkCupid and I saw a face I liked. He also had lips I liked. He had a goatee, but he had no out of control flavor saver and the lips were good. Actually, the eyes were good too. He had light brown eyes. Plus, in his picture, he was in a suit. I love a man in a suit. His profile said he was a lawyer. As far as I could tell, things were looking good all the way around.

Then I saw how tall he was. Hmm. He was only 5′-6″.

Decisions, decisions. What the hell, right?

I decided to send him a message anyway.

“Wow, you are a handsome man.  However, I am 5′-10″.  It appears you are not tall enough to ride the ride. Do you ever opt for just friendship? In what area of law do you specialize?”

I wouldn’t normally lead with the “too short to ride the ride” comment, but I really did not expect a reply given our differences in height and his good looks. Clearly, he would have other dating options, and if I went with a smart ass line like the one above, I could blame that, and not my Amazonian size, when he rejected me.

He sent a message back right away,

“Well, the last woman I dated was your height and I think she would say I managed the ride well.  But I get that not all tall women feel comfortable being seen out with shorter men.  Too bad that though.  Still, who isn’t open to friendship?

I am a criminal defense attorney.

Thank you for the compliment, btw.  You are quite the looker yourself.”

Hmm. Well, shit. What could I say to that? I responded,

“Actually, my husband was 5′-7″.  It’s really not that big of a deal.  I do like wearing my heels though.”

I asked him more about his work, asked if he enjoyed it, and thanked him for his compliment. He commented that he wouldn’t date a woman who didn’t occasionally wear her heels, and then mentioned how often he saw that misspelled as heals on online dating sites. This also scored points with me. I often feel alone in my criticism of grammar and spelling errors. It was nice to know there was a guy out there who noticed that stuff too.

As we exchanged more emails, I made reference to holding some of my cards close, and he joked that he hoped I had them near my chest so he would have an excuse to stare. We used this metaphor of a card game, and I finally said,

“Regarding criminal justice: I’ll reveal a card.  Periodically, I go up to Monroe to visit with the Concerned Lifers Organization.”

I haven’t written about it here, except for the little I wrote about the Trayvon Martin case, but I have another, not so little, project I’m working on. By Monroe, I mean the Washington State Reform Unit at Monroe, also known as the State prison. This apparently scored points with Man #31. He responded,

“I like your card.  If that is your opener, I anxiously await the rest of your hand.”

Overall, there was a nice mix of humor, sincerity, and intellect in our emails, and I was eager to meet him. Although I wanted to meet Man #31, however, I resisted asking him out on a date. I had already been the one to initiate our interactions, and I felt the request for a date needed to come from him.

Finally, he said he hoped he had convinced the woman running the ride that he was tall enough, and he asked me out for dinner. We agreed to meet at Quinn’s in Capitol Hill.

It was a busy night at Quinn’s, and I got there first. Man #31 had sent me a text message to say he was stuck in traffic and running late. Unfortunately, the hostess was not seating anyone unless the whole party was there, so I parked my ass at the bar and ordered a Guinness. About twenty minutes later, Man #31 arrived and we were taken to our table.

Now, there are two floors at Quinn’s, and we were seated on the second floor. With me walking in front of the attorney that meant he ended up with a good view of my big ass as we climbed the stairs. Thankfully, it turns out Man #31 is a big fan of big asses, and later, during dinner, he complimented me on the view he had while climbing the stairs.

What can I say? Even at my skinniest, ass men have always been attracted to me.

As I had hoped, Man #31 and I had a nice dinner and a great conversation. He was good at both listening and asking questions, and, of course, I wouldn’t have expected anything less from a criminal defense attorney.  Dinner went so well, in fact, that I ended up feeling what one might call chemistry, and, as you know, this is not typical for me. It actually felt a little scary.

After I got home, I sent him a text thanking him for the date. He responded and told me that he doesn’t kiss on the first date. I replied that I don’t like it when men assume they can kiss me on the first date,…but we both agreed the chemistry was there.

Phew! Yowza! The second part of my dating prescription quickly came into my mind. My therapist had said,

“If you meet someone you’re immediately attracted to, run!”

Well, fuck! I can’t win. I tried to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

There were a couple of areas where Man #31 and I were different. He believed in God and felt he had been called to do the work he does, and he didn’t drink. Through our conversations we discovered that neither one of these things were really an issue. However, during dinner, he had also revealed that he came from a good, solid, traditional family where everyone for the past two generations had post-graduate degrees. His mother was a strong matriarch and his father had taught him chivalry and respect for women.

For some reason, this terrified me.

As I started to imagine future conversations and questions, I started to panic that I wouldn’t be good enough, and I feared eventually being judged by him. I didn’t come from a nice, happy family where my mother and father were still together after decades of marriage, and, for a multitude of reasons, none of them stemming from my intelligence, I was 36 years old before I got my bachelors degree.

We continued communicating via email after our date, and after a week, my defenses were up and I was in a panic. I couldn’t get my fear under control, and I didn’t want to be judged. I’ve gotten pretty good at going out on first dates, but I felt like I was drowning and out of control now that I was actually attracted to someone.

So, using the card metaphor, I threw up a block in the form of an email and told him I was folding.

“When we started our email conversation a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned keeping my cards close, and I hoped I would feel comfortable revealing more as we got to know each other.  However, while I really enjoyed our date and the emails leading up to it, after our date, I ended up feeling like you would need me to be perfect, and, quite frankly, I’m just not.  I enjoyed our conversation over dinner immensely, definitely felt chemistry, but all week I’ve been feeling this fear that as you got to know me, you’d realize I don’t fit in your world, the PhDs, the two loving parents, God and all that brings, etc….”

I went on to list 13 unlucky, numbered cards, or reasons, why he would not want to date me and told him that he could pick a card, any card, and let that be the reason for not going out with me again.

Um, yes, at times, I can be pretty fucking neurotic.

Whether I was really folding, bluffing, or going all in, I don’t really know. The fear was palpable and I needed to lay it all on the line.

A few minutes after I pressed send, he sent an email back,

“None of that information dissuades me from being interested but I will be damned if I ever force a woman to return that interest. I am sorry to all my friends and clients who see my life as charmed – I now know it was but didn’t feel at all that way when I was growing up. And I am a person not at all satisfied with who I am, accomplishments notwithstanding.

I think you are smart, engaging and hot. I was glad to get the email. I DO want to go out again. I am also a pretty good friend; in fact, it may be my best quality. I hope one day to be both friend and lover to some (lucky) woman.”

As I read the first sentence, I gasped and started to cry. A few seconds later, he did what I really needed. He picked up the phone and called. I was still crying when I answered the phone. He didn’t make me say anything; he just talked. He reiterated what he had said in his email, but added that, if all of those 13 things added up to the woman he had met at dinner, he was looking forward to finding out more about me.

He said he would like to go out again if I was willing, and I nodded.

“Are you there,” he asked.

“Yes,” I said into the phone…

… and with that I put some of my defenses to rest.





Man #30, El Professore

10 08 2012

For any of you readers who are in a hurry, I’ll cut right to the chase on this one. There’s not much to say about Man #30 except that I would never fuck him. There. You can go on about your day.

For anyone who wants to stay and find out what happened, please, continue.

Man #30 was a date from OkCupid, and, again, I have to say I am getting more intelligent dates from this website. It’s pretty interesting to note the differences between the caliber of men from one site to another. I don’t know if it is how I’ve written my profile or who the typical members are, but OkCupid seems to be the best free online dating website so far. I take back every negative thing I said about the site. I stand corrected.

Man #30 introduced himself by commenting on the fact that in my profile I mentioned that, according to Myers Briggs, I’m an INTJ. He was an ENTJ although he said he didn’t put much stock in it since he had taken the test online and it said the E meant he was a “moderately expressed extrAvert.” He said he didn’t know if that meant he was “additionally turned or concerned” but that he thought of himself as shyly gregarious. He also said, “…I am detailed oriented. People who don’t understand this call it picky. I’m hoping you won’t, and the way you parsed out some of the OKC questions fuels this hope.” He was a writer and a professor and we went on to discuss the pros and cons of outlines and writing an introduction last.

What can I say? I was not attracted to his picture at all. I wouldn’t have normally given him a second glance, but his writing, attention to details, and the fact that he was also a major dog lover made him definitely worth meeting.

After a few more emails, he asked how I would be spending Bastille Day and if I would like to meet.

(Ok, yes, I realize Bastille Day was almost a month ago. I still have a major backlog of writing to do. Please be patient.)

He had planned to go to the festivities at the Seattle Center. I told him I was initially going to go to Dragonfest in the International District, but after hearing that both I-5 at Mercer and the ramp to Hwy 520 would be closed for part of the day, I thought I should stay near my ‘hood.  That meant I would probably avoid Seattle Center and go to Madison Valley for some Bastille Day celebrating. I had heard there was a good deal on wine tasting.

He was down for that, and we agreed to meet in front of Cafe Flora in the afternoon.

Wine tasting at the Bastille Day event was ten dollars for a wine glass, which you carried around from store to store for the tastings. It was fun, and Man #30 was a good wine tasting partner. He seemed to have good taste when it came to bottled grapes. The best white wine of the day was a Semillon from L’Ecole No. 41 in Walla Walla. Most of the stores serving whites had chosen cloyingly sweet Rieslings. One was so bad it needed to be dumped in the bucket.

Ok, I know. Wine tasting is supposed to involve sniffing, swirling, swishing, tasting, and spitting. But, who am I kidding? I’m more of a wine drinker than a wine taster. I only dump when a wine is truly awful, like that really bad Riesling.

L’Ecole No. 41 was also tasting their Syrah, which was very good and put most of the other red wines available to shame. The fact that these are the only two wines I can remember from the whole day, and I tasted them at the end when I had a slight “I don’t spit in the bucket” buzz, should tell you something.

While we were standing at one venue, Man #30 suddenly looked at me and said, “I have to say, you are more beautiful in person than in your pictures.”

(Me blushing.) “Thank you,” I said. It was the second time in a row that a date had told me I looked better in real life than in my profile photos. I must be hitting a new phase. Maybe the wine was giving me a nice glow. Either that or I radiate an irresistible charm when people meet me in person. (It’s too bad you’re reading this. You can’t hear the sarcasm in my voice.) Anyway, the compliment was nice and I accepted it.

During our conversation, Man #30 picked up on the fact that I say Medellin, as in Medellin, Colombia, with a “J” sound for the “ll” instead of a “y” sound. He had lived in Colombia and commented that I said it like the people who are born there. El Professore had lived in Colombia for several years and spoke with an educated Spanish accent. I told him that although I don’t say tortilla with a “j” sound, I do say natilla with a “j”. This caused him to ask if I knew any Colombian recipes, and I rattled off that, in addition to natilla, I can make arepas, sancocho, and a number of things involving pork shoulder, beans, and rice.

Toward the end of our date, my friend, Lourdes, sent me a text message asking if I was at the Bastille Day event. She and I had talked about possibly going to the event together, before I had set up my date with El Professore. However, she had come down with a cold and said she wasn’t feeling up to it.

I sent her a message letting her know I was on a date. This did not dissuade her from saying she was coming to meet me. I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. It would be really weird to have her show up during my date with El Professore, but I had already told her I was on a date and she was coming anyway. I didn’t know what to do.

Maybe my friends think my dates aren’t important to me since I write this blog, but that’s really not the case. I tried to explain to El Professore what had happened and that Lourdes would be joining us, but I could tell he thought it was weird too. Not a good first date impression, I’m afraid.

Luckily, it took Lourdes a while to get there, so my afternoon with El Professore was not completely interrupted. Late in the afternoon, he asked me if I would like to go to dinner, but then Lourdes showed up just in time to go with us. I’m sure he thought I was trying to put up a block by having her there, but that was not my intention at all.

We had a three-some at dinner. We went to have sushi and were seated at a round table. Lourdes ended up choosing a spot between El Professore and I so we were across from each other with her in between. I suppose I could have sat next to him and across from her, but then I was worried that, since I would be facing her, my attention would be too much on her and not him.

It was all very awkward. Lourdes and El Professore struck up a conversation in Spanish, which left me out since I only speak food and phrase book stuff to get me by. We split the check three ways, and when we left the restaurant, El Professore gave me an awkward hug and quickly left.

I had figured we could deposit Lourdes at the bus, and then walk to our cars, but he was gone.

Later, I sent him an email, thanking him for a lovely day, and explained what I felt had happened with Lourdes showing up. I told him I hadn’t known how to handle the situation and I apologized. I received an email back from him saying that he thought I had invited Lourdes as my “wing,” but after hearing more about what happened, he wasn’t sure how he would have handled the situation either.

He was really fun to hang out with, but after the Lourdes incident, we have not scheduled anything else. I doubt that we will. First of all, you see, I’m not that motivated to seek a second date since I have this whole 70 other men to date thing. Plus, I was not physically attracted to him at all. Sometimes, when an ugly guy is really cool, he can grow on you, but I’m not interested in letting that happen.

El Professore wasn’t ugly. More than anything, he was just old looking. At 55, he was the oldest guy I have dated so far. His hair started way back on his head and was not styled in a flattering way. His skin was pale and sort of sallow, and he wore old man clothes.

I think it’s safe to say that big, hunter green plaid is aging on men over 40.

So, although he was really nice and I enjoyed hanging out with him, I could never see myself sleeping with him. He would end up in the friend zone, and I could tell that at some point in the future, like if we would have gone on a second date, he probably would have wanted to kiss me. I didn’t want that to happen.

I’m curious to know how people would have handled the Lourdes situation. Thoughts?





Therapy Thursday

2 08 2012

I’m sitting in the waiting room at my therapist’s office. There’s this bubbling, gurgling Japanese water fountain in the corner. I think it’s supposed to make me feel more peaceful. On the end table, between two of the waiting room chairs, there’s a miniature Japanese Zen garden. You know the ones, those little square sandboxes with the miniature rake. It’s supposed to be calming to rake the sand around in different patterns. All I can think is that I want to draw obscene pictures. Maybe it’s some sort of Asian Rorschach test and my therapist will realize that I’m some kind of twisted. I decide to leave it alone.

I settle for the latest New Yorker instead. I don’t know why I always make this choice. I can never get through an entire article before my therapist calls me into  his office, but I always choose The New Yorker. What can I say? I like the writing.

My therapist is funny, and by funny, I mean funny weird. You can have your shoes on in the waiting area, but you have to take them off before you enter his office. The other thing that he does is he always asks me, “what’s new and good?” It pisses me off. Every time I go to see him I have to figure out what’s new and good. I figure it’s just one of his methods for making the weight of his job a little less dreary. I mean imagine having to listen to everybody’s problems all day long. It irritates me though, because sometimes, like today, it’s a real struggle for me to come up with something.

The angry couple I heard behind the wall leaves and it’s my turn. My Jewish doctor/Zen master calls me into his office. I slip off my sandals at the door and take my spot on the sofa.

“So, what’s new and good,” he asks.

Here we go.

“Um, I wore slip-on shoes today?”

“No, there must be something. Come on. What’s new and good?” he says. He’ll embrace my inner child but not my inner smart ass.

I don’t fucking know. I’d been wracking my brain all the way over to his office in my car, and I couldn’t come up with anything. Now, he waits. He sits there and waits. He’ll wait at $120 an hour until I come up with something, which is why I usually try to come up with something acceptable in the car.

Oh for fuck sake.

“Um, I’ve made it to all of my personal training appointments, three times a week, for the past three months?”

“Great! How does that make you feel?”

“Strong. Strong and still fat.”

“Strong is good.”

I can tell he’s trying to work with me here.

“I’m stronger than I was in my twenties.”

“That’s good, especially considering where you were last year.”

It’s true. A year ago, I was still broken, physically broken from a bicycling accident and emotionally broken from my divorce. I had done the right thing. I got a trainer for my body and a therapist for my mind. Things were looking up.

“What else is going on?”

“Well, I think I’m obsessing.”

“About what?”

“Well, there’s this guy I’ve been corresponding with through email…”

I start to tell him about My Stalker/Super Fan. I tell him how he’s charming, funny, intelligent, and…a complete mystery.

“He says he’s #100.”

“Do YOU think he’s #100? What does #100 mean for you at this point?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him. He could turn out to be a hairy troll beating off in a basement for all I know. The scary part is that I find myself looking forward to his emails and thinking about him during the day…and I don’t even know what he looks like! It’s ridiculous!”

“What is it that you like about him?”

“He’s hilarious. I laugh out load when I read his emails, and there’s this, sort of, in charge, kind of charisma that seems to come through in his emails. For the most part though, I feel like the rest of it is just one big Cinderella fantasy that I’m making up in my head, like he’s going to come sweeping in at the end of this and whisk me away to live happily ever after or some shit…Mr. 100. Whoo hoo! That shit NEVER happens to me. My life is never a fairy tale. It’s more like tragedy and comedy…or a horror story.”

“I hear a couple of things going on here. First, you need to base your decisions and feelings on reality, not fantasy.”

“I know. I know. I know. I need to reign it in. I know I’m falling into that fairy tale bullshit I was sold as a little girl. You know, the prince comes and saves the princess and they live happily ever after. I have a business degree for crying out loud. I can choose between two separate investments based on their net present value, but I can’t seem to evaluate a good guy from a bad guy. It’s like I’m hoping this guy will be my knight in shining armor or something and it’s bullshit! I know it’s bullshit!”

I can hear myself getting louder, ranting and rambling, and I stop and look at my therapist.

“I’ve just had really rotten luck with men,” I finally admit in defeat.

“I know. You deserve a man who loves you, but that love has to be based on fact, not fiction. Just like any of your other dates, if you’re really interested in this guy, you need to take the time to get to know him. Ask him questions. You’ll have to ask a lot of questions and meet face to face before you decide if what you’re feeling is real or not.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh and look out the window.

“But, that brings me to the other thing I was going to say, which is, do you think you could believe that something good could happen to you?”

“Oh,…well,…I don’t know.”

The question floods my mind with thoughts of how in love I had been with STBex and I have to fight back tears. Look how that turned out. How was I going to love again and be able to trust those feelings after I had been so betrayed?

“I hear you building this guy up to be a prince and then, just as quickly, writing him off because you don’t think he’s going to come through for you. What if you took time to get to know him, and he actually turned out to be a good guy?”

“That would be nice for a change.”

“And, that would be a good thing, right?”

“Yeah, it would.”

My therapist goes on to suggest exercises to refocus my attention when my fantasizing about My Stalker/Super Fan gets out of control, and, again, he reminds me to slowly figure out what’s real and what’s fantasy. I realize that waiting to meet My Stalker/Super Fan until date #100 is probably a good thing. You gotta admit: it’s slow. If Man #100 is really going to wait to date me, at the rate my dating is going, it could be another two years before we meet face to face. If My Stalker/Super Fan really believes he’s Man #100, he either has incredible perseverance, is unusually goal driven, or maybe he’s the one who’s fantasizing. There are long odds on Man #100.

I slip my shoes on as I leave my therapist’s office and exit into the sunlight to head to my car. My mind feels more clear…at least for now.

Photo here.








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