Joys of Dating: Sunday Brunch

Despite the fact that age steals the illusion of happily ever after (as does watching all those fairytales end with lawyers and custody spats...)dating too, gets worse with age...or maybe men have just been steadily devolving as I've aged...
Regardless, here's a date for the record books.
Background...an eharmony date...my first one, because...well...I don't tend to want to spend time with anyone I don't know. Now I remember why...its a gamble. And I am NOT lady luck.
So we spoke on the phone about 5 times and decided to go out...I suggested Sunday brunch. Safe. Lots of people around. No walking to a car in a dark parking lot...and I LOVE brunch food. So, Ralph Machio, we'll call him...agrees on Thursday to a date on Sunday...but calls Friday to see what I'm doing. Not THAT weird, but he pushed..."you're not going to be at dinner all night right?" Ok, we have plans, I like plans. Leave me alone. Same thing Saturday...Arrrgghhh! Guess the guy really wanted to see me...
OR NOT...he showed up 30 minutes late, and even though I had called to ask where he was, he never mentioned being late, an apology, an aknowledgement, a lame brained excuse that I'm growing so (not) fond of in men recently. He saunters right up...to my BOOBS. Lets just say that I think he was using the metric system when he measured himself...not in and of itself a problem, but when you've lied...come on. Did you think I wouldn't notice?!
So we sit (Ahhh, even ground). Its outside, its a beautiful day...neither of those being an excuse to never at any moment remove your polarized sunglasses, so at any point that I look directly at you I'm forced to view my own horrification at the mornings events. Luckily, listening and rarely getting a word in edgewise doesn't require attempted eye contact..
He spoke at length about Karate (get the reference now?) and how he taught it, and how he was going to teach me, and how he could break every bone is someone's body. Sweet...the hobit can hit. My saving grace...the waitress. Poor, poor waitress. I proceed to tell her what I want, guided by this clever piece of paper they had given each of us, otherwise known as a menu. Ralphy though, wants something with just some eggs, pancakes, sausage...I know we've all heard of it - its called a Grand Slam Breakfast, and maybe he thought the waitress at the swanky french place would run over to Denny's and pick one up for him? Not even a thank you...again, horrification (I love this word, I feel like I could make it onto a Bush-ism flip calendar with it.)
Food comes, and now we're deep into every job he's had since age 11...fascinating, really. The fact that I'm sticking a fork in my eye just thinking about it is in NO way indication that I was not enthralled with the life of this little dungeon master. But soon he stops and looks at me (welcome reminder to me that I'm actually present and not just having an out of body experience). He then asks, "Is your hair thin?" I'm sorry...but that immediately brings up images of rogaine and not only being the president, but also a member. Thing is, my hair is NOT thin...I mean relative to some very dark skinned ethnicities, yes, its thinNER, but not thin. I have trouble even voicing a response, so he changes it to "soft." I touch my own hair, look at it, because I believe even my hair is bored to tears...and say I guess so. So he asked to touch it. It was creepy...not sure if it was because I figured if he got ahold of any, a doll in my likeness would be forthcoming. Regardless, creepy. Way creepy.
So we get to the point of leaving (finally - a hundred lifetimes later) and we walk the ugliest stretch Santana Row has...very fitting. I herd us toward the parking lot and walk past my car on purpose. Then turn around when I "suddenly" realize I missed my car. WISH that worked...he took my momentarily turned head to set up for making out. Like I wanna lean DOWN to play tonsil hockey in the middle of the day with farmer's market goers walking by. Not a chance. Ok a chance if the rest of the date didn't suck balls.
And the banger of a conclusion...he walks me to my car (because this most certainly has not gone on NEARLY long enough) and because I am avoiding his advances he decides to make one last attempt at getting closer. And starts tying Boy Scout knots in the rope that went around the waist of my dress...there's nothing funny or ironic enough to say about that. Only that this should indicate to you how fast I jumped in my car, peeled out of Santana Row, and was on my way to terminal single-dom.

Joys of Dating: Happy Thumbs

A wise man once said, (ok, just joshing...my brother once said, and I'm pretty sure its not even his original thought) that "texting is for teenagers and affairs." Ahh, and how right he is. Teenagers are constantly surrounded by the lurking enemy...adults, teachers, parents or other such daunting figures of authority that in a few short years they will all morph into. They have to guard their privacy with a vengence, shown also by other activities native to the teen; note writing, extreme slang use, and my 90's favorite...pager language. When I was younger and a parent was around we'd just say "elephant" meaning, "I can't talk about it right now."
Adulterers, too, have a careful dance of information that must be performed. And all without the person who is closest to them...has probably folded their underwear, knows the locations of their moles, and can perfectly mimic their sleeping positions...finding out. So silent, erasable, and informative communication is a must.
But why is it that men in their late 20's and well into their 30's chose texting as their main form of communication? Its like it falls in line with the "gaming" fad that has created glorified space invaders as an acceptable adult obsession. I get that you can think out what you say a little better, but otherwise its inefficient and lacks personality...not to mention it lacks inflection, allowing for misunderstandings abound.
So a girl walks into a bar...no, its not a joke. Unless you consider my life a joke (which wouldn't be far from the truth). I'm with a friend, and long story short...a man approaches, starts up a conversation, and a lovely evening ensues. 3 girls, one guy, and a few hours of above average stimulating conversation. Said man (I call him "happy thumbs") inquires in great depth about what girls want, best ways to meet girls, etc. Seems intuitive, polite, and intelligent. At the end of the evening, I got a hug, he got my number. Three days later...heavy texting ensues. 4 hours later, we've had the equivalent of a 15 minute call and I've had to put down my read of the week about 8 bazillion times to type using the phone pad keyboard. Something I have admittedly become AS familiar with as the asdf contraption I'm on now. The next night, things seem to begin in the same direction. This is not my first, or even fourth encounter with this method of relationship growth, or dwarfism as the case may be. I make mention (by text ironically, because I'm not going to be the one to make the call - he got MY number) that I don't favor text as a way to get to know someone. He apologizes, says he's quiet when he's tired, and I graciously offer to accept a call the next evening. Call never comes...but a text does. I try to approach from another, less direct road (now you guys see?! you force us into this chickness!)and answer once shortly and then not again. The next evening, he makes clear that he didn't get the clue. He mentions (in phone shorthand, provided the limited space) that he'll be away for the weekend and call me when he gets back. And he does...wait, no he doesn't. He texts. He continues to text...how his day was, invites to hang out, and intentions to get to know each other better. But seriously...if you can't even reach the point in the relationship that I've already hit with every telemarketer this side of the Mississippi...why would I want to explore that facet of our textlationship...much less hang out. Would I have to text him during dinner to see how he was enjoying his chicken picatta? Would I have to work my thumbs when he was handed the bill to see if I could "give u $ 4 that?"? I have to admit, I don't get it and I don't like it.
So men, the new "opening the door" or "walking her to the stoop" is picking up the phone. Dial...risk that ever looming possibility of the voicemail. Throw caution to the possibility of call waiting or an awkward silence or two. Our expectations are SO low after all the Warcrafters and Dungeon Masters we encounter, that a simple call or two gets your feet firmly in the door.
You and your trophy wife can thank me later...

Adventures in hell...

So exciting news!! Coming in Just 33 days is...wait for it...my 29th Birthday. Woo-freaking-hoo. I love my birthday, I love getting presents, I love my friends and family gathering FOR ME, and I love that I'm having birthdays as opposed to the alternative...death.

This year however, my first card was less of a Hallmark, and more of a notice. From the DMV. And not just any notice, but the DREADED notice that proclaims that its just been FAR too long since I've graced the bowels of their gray soul sucking walls with my sunshiney presence. Seriously?! Isn't there ANY other indication that I'm still fit to be licensed? Like...oh, maybe the fact that I haven't been in an accident (that sound was me knocking on my desk)?! Or the fact that I made it to the DMV at all?!! If they were REALLY concerned, they would come to ME...make sure I was safe before I was released back onto the roads. So no, the fitness of my ability to operate a motor vehicle is determined by my ability to stand in line, not catch the dreaded cooties in the filth that millions go into annually, understand why B086 is called before F032 but after G054, and decipher the broken (and I'm talking into a million little shards) English of the person determining my transportation rights.

So I start at the first desk...no, backup...I START by making an appointment, and responsibly notifying my employers of said appointment. BIG fat deal...I get to the first desk and on the left is a sign indicating people with appointments should line up there...on the right, people without appointments. BUT, here's the curveball...the sign in the middle says "start here" and is the only line with an attendant. So I get in this line and say, "I have an appointment" and I get an F number (no verification of said appointment) instead of a B number- obviously saved for the savages that didn't make an appointment. He tells me to sit and wait. Now recall I discussed the order of numbers called? At least 3 B's came before each F. Sweet...only in a mixed up hell with carpeted walls, yet linolium floors would the universe favor those who didn't bother making an appointment.

I'm finally called, after whatever disease was on the seat has sufficiently seaped through to my skin. I had also had a chance to contemplate the fact that if pretty much every adult needs to go to the DMV at relatively regular intervals, then the 90 or some odd people in this building should be a good cross section of society...and if this is true, then the world is doomed. Fashion? Doomed. Hygiene? Doomed. Evolution of education? Doomed. We're all doomed. Anywho...I handed the woman everything she needed...my license, the check I wrote while I couldn't stand to leer at these people any longer, the paper that was mailed to me (fully and correctly filled out), and my aforementioned arbitrary number.

I will suspend my critism of this woman as a person, as well as my rendition of her accent, because that stuff is just petty...plus I've got plenty of ammo without it. She asks am I at the same address...yes, I am. She proceeds to read it loud enough for the world to hear...in fact, wherever that silly Bin Laden is hiding, he probably caught wind of it. For Christ's sake, same address! Then my phone number...I say it slowly but quietly and she repeats it over her own inner loud speaker...SHUT UP!!! Hello?! Could I be the first person in the DMV to not want her personal information displayed in light? Insanity I tell you.

Then there's the eye test...and for those who saw my glasses as a child, it comes as no surprise that one of my eyes doesn't' work too hot. Its lazy. I let it be lazy...because I understand the mentality well. And there isn't JACK that can be done...no surgery, no nothing. So I read the bottom line of eye test 3, cover the left eye, read the bottom of eye test 2, cover the right eye and nothing...she looks like she's never seen this before. I need to go to the "machine" to verify (verify what exactly?! Didn't I just say, I can't see letters with that eye?!) So I go to the forehead activated machine and my hypochondriaced A$$ almost passed out...NO covers...I'm putting my forehead on the forehead of everyone else for who knows how long. I am trying to decide what antibacterial product in my purse will best burn off 3 layers of skin...and I do the machine. She asks, with my right eye covered...can you see line one? Nope...I can't read any of them (aka, release my forehead from flubbers evil twin!) But just to be sure...she asks about line 2. Nope. Line 3. Line 4-8...but individually. UGH! She asks if this has ever been diagnosed by a doctor (uh yup...when I was three)- because obviously, in her many years obviously as an opthamologist who happens to enjoy working for, arguably, the worst government agency around, has never seen an eye with bad vision. She settles on me getting a license (nice choice since I already HAVE one)...but I have to fill out a form. Honest to god (because no one could make this shit up) it reads like this....
"I have vision in my ___right eye, ____ left eye because:
vision impairment _____________________________________________
injury:________________________________________________________ "
I read it twice...then again to her...she nods (yes, stupid). She asks which eye I have vision in...I say both..I'm not blind. "But you can't read the lines." I know, and I know what she meant, but I have vision and I'm gearing up to kick some hiney if I'm not granted my god given right to take an awful photo and lie horendously about my weight! Then I mark that I have vision (and by that, they meant good vision, because THIS is where the DMV decides to save time) in my right eye. But then there's that "because..." well, because nothing. I ate my carrots? Good genes on the right side of my body? Its my cross to bear?! I don't know why...they want to know why lefty doesn't work. Does the DMV not have anyone who edits? (hey Mike...possible job opportunity:) LOVE YOU!)

And then the photo...I step up smiling so he doesn't catch me off guard...I'm well made up, but the camera guy - we'll call him El Freako" topped off sharing all my information with the cream of the crop crowd by projecting out my full name.

You'll be glad to know, I made it out alive. To write this...for you- Sean and Michael.