Category Archives: Relationships

Skorts, Kisses, and Mommy Issues

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Y’all remember skorts, right? They were pretty popular in the 90s and looked like skirts, but had shorts built in, so that the boys wouldn’t see your Little Mermaid panties when you hung upside down on the jungle gym. Well, I’m here to tell you that if you ever find one made for an adult, it is not proper zoo date attire.

Me: “It’s actually a skort and has shorts sewn in… they don’t usually make them for adults. I got it at Goodwill for three dollars.” :: Fuck. Why am I telling him this? :: “I just didn’t have any shorts and I didn’t want to wear a dress to the zoo.”
Jake: “Why not?”
Me: :: Because my thighs will rub together all day like Jiminy Cricket and I won’t be able to walk tomorrow. :: “Um. It just sounded really uncomfortable.”

If you decide to wear a skort on any date, shut the fuck up about it. Bee tea double ewe, the skort didn’t even help. My thighs still looked like raw hamburger meat the next day.

Jake and I had a really great date at the zoo and it was my treat this time. I received a free pass for two when I gave blood, which admittedly had a steeper price than originally thought, when I passed the fuck out on our last date. I managed to make it through the zoo, however, despite the insane heat, with just the one asthma inhaler stop. As much as I want him to come up with an idea occasionally and didn’t want to discourage Jake from doing so, the zoo was pretty much the worst idea for July in the South. Yeah, yeah, all of the animals were out and Jake realized that my reaction to every single living creature is pretty much “It’s so cute! Look at the ears!” We had plenty to talk about and I got to tease him about his hunting… sometimes inappropriately for a public place.

Me: “It’s a LION! Put away your gun… wow… I said that really loudly.”

It was also a lot of walking in the heat.

Boys just don’t think about this stuff, particularly ones who work outside, but I’m a librarian, y’all. I have pretty much zero reason to be outside right now unless I want to, which usually involves a pool. So, while I had a great time and Jake humored my desire to look at every animal, never complaining when we got lost and backtracked, I was just a bit self-conscious by the time we left. Worse, when we went to lunch, I was shivering like it was fucking Winterfell.

Jake: “Are you really that cold?”
Me: 

There’s just no hiding what an indoor girl I can be, folks.

After lunch, we went to another movie, Trainwreck this time. While the movie was absolutely hilarious, I am so glad we didn’t see it on an earlier date.

… yeah…

After the movie, Jake also bought dinner (there go my bragging rights about covering the zoo) and took me home. At this point, I asked him to come inside and was quite proud of myself for not clarifying that this was not a sexual invitation. I’d just cleaned and organized my apartment to a point no man would even realize, so I was comfortable having him in my space and we all saw how our last porch conversation turned out…


I’m just gonna pencil this in under Shit I’ll Never Live Down.

Jake suggested we watch a movie and we sat on my couch with his arm around me and watched two terrible horror movies on Netflix. Regardless of poor quality, I scream like a fucking banshee at the slightest provocation in horror, as Jake had already seen on date three, during the Sinister 2 trailer.

Me: “Last time my neighbors saw you with me unconscious on the ground and tonight they saw you go inside and heard screaming. ‘He didn’t even have the decency to drug her this time!'”

:: cop gives previously uncooperative girl ice cream and she starts talking ::
Jake: “So all you have to do to get the girl to open up is give her ice cream?”
Me: “I’d open up for anyone if they gave me ice cream… not physically… that’s what they really mean by ‘we all scream for ice cream.'”

That’s right, Belle. Keep talking.

After the second movie, Jake turned off Netflix and finally kissed me… on date six. One thing led to another though and kissing pretty quickly led to making out. Honestly, it was a little awkward at first, which was most definitely all my fault for not knowing what the hell I was doing and overthinking technique. You know what doesn’t really lessen that awkwardness? Apologizing for it. Jake was really sweet, though, and when I pulled away to tell him that I didn’t want things to go too far, he completely respected my wishes… quite a bit more than I did. Yeah, I was a good girl and said the words, but the signals I was sending weren’t exactly aligned. Still, while Jake could’ve easily taken things a little further, he pulled away and said we should stop. It’s a good thing, too, because while I’m comfortable with where it went, I would not have been had things escalated.

Though it was around 1:00 in the morning at this point and Jake needed to be up early, he stayed and talked with me for at least an hour. I’d told him that he was essentially the second person I had ever kissed and I think he could tell I was feeling a bit vulnerable. It was nice and I walked him to the door, where he kissed me before he left. I texted Gail and we made plans to go out the next day so I could give her all of the inappropriate details.

Now, I love my Gaily. She’s my best friend and my sister in every way that matters outside of a chem lab. My first inclination was obviously to tell her everything. My second, though… well, my second was to call my mom. Things with my mom aren’t good and I just don’t think we’ll ever heal that rift unless she gets treatment for the severe mental illness she insists she doesn’t have. I know that… but I still wanted to call her up and tell her all about the boy I met and how he opens doors and he gets my humor and he wasn’t turned off that I apologized for being a bad kisser. In every way, Gail’s the better choice, be it for the initial gossip or the three days later reassurance that the fact that Jake had only texted twice that day didn’t mean he thought I was a whore and never wanted to see me again.

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Still, I, the girl who insists that emotion belongs with the last fucking Horcrux…

Me: “I actually miss him, which is just disgusting. Ugh.”
Gail: “Oh, yes. ‘Emotions! Ewwww.‘”

… cried some genuine and gut-wrenching tears that I couldn’t experience the joy of sharing this moment with my mother. I did so while watching That 70s Show and sniffling to the dog that I wished Kitty Foreman was my mom… a ritual I usually save for birthdays and holidays. Then, I dried my eyes, went out with Gail, and shared and laughed over every detail… perhaps a bit too loudly.

:: pulled up to a stoplight, with the windows down ::
Me: “I wasn’t wet. I was hot. It’s… the way the fabric goes. It was like a WEDGIE. IT WAS LIKE I WAS DRY-HUMPING A WED—.” :: look out my window to see the driver next to us has his down as well and is staring :: “Go forward. RUN THE LIGHT.”
Gail: 

Me: “You’re going to tell Terry about this, aren’t you?”
Gail: “Oh my God. I’m going to tell my seventh child about this! I am going to have seven children just so I can my seventh one about this.”

Fluid Engineer Gets a Name and I Get a Mild Concussion

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Last week, I had my first ever fourth date with Fluid Engineer, who will now be known as Jake Granger. That’s right, folks. He gets a name.

Me: “His last name is essentially a Harry Potter reference.
Gail: “Oh, my God. This guy isn’t even real! His last name is Ravenclaw! You’re completely delusional!”

I didn’t report on date four, not because it didn’t go wonderfully, but because I was in the middle of an internal battle against my tendencies toward self-sabotage.

Date four was great. I had the idea to go to the science museum, not thinking about the fact that it’s summer and it’s far more directed at children this time of year. When I realized my mistake, I felt awful, because Jake had spent $30 for the two of us to get in and it was my idea. I apologized a couple of times, but he genuinely didn’t seem to mind. We enjoyed the exhibits as best we could, as adults, laughing at the earthquake generator that’s been in place since I was a little kid. It felt like standing on top of a Mack Truck engine and I cackled like a mad woman about how it was exactly like an earthquake. We had time to see a planetarium show and Jake made up for my numerous faux pas with one of his own.

Jake: “Do you speak Latin?”
Me: “No. Why would I speak Latin?”
Jake: “Because you’re Catholic.”

I did not handle my amusement with grace. To be fair, Catholics in the south are few and far between, unless you’re near Mexico.

After the science museum, Jake clearly wanted to continue spending time together, because he suggested a movie and dinner. There are a lot of experiences that tell you a great deal about someone’s character, such as an accidental trip to a pricey children’s center, but I think one of the most telling is how someone reacts to a bad movie. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know I get genuine joy out of mockery. I mock things I like, so when we saw Self/Less, I got a pretty fair glimpse into Jake’s sense of humor, as he laughed right along with me at the nonsensical plot. We hadn’t kissed yet, but when I started to shiver, he put his arm around me and I pulled away to lift the armrest between our seats and make things less awkward. It was nice, without going too far. I know, I know. It was the fourth date, but I’ve kissed like two people ever.

Dana: “You haven’t kissed him yet? You’re gonna lose him.”
::one week later::
Dana: “So how’s your beau?”
Me: “Oh, I’m not telling you anything else about him.”
Dan: “What?!? Why not?”
Me: “Because you told me he was going to lose interest, unless I put out.”
Dana: “No, I didn’t.”
Me: “Come on. That was hardly even an exaggeration. That was practically verbatim.”

We ended the date, still with no kiss, but we talked in his truck and in front of my apartment door for ages. He never hinted at wanting to be invited in and we just continued to enjoy each other’s company. I had a great time.

Y’all, I don’t even know what was going through my head, but two days later, I was looking for every reason to blow this guy off. I’ve never been on a fourth date and Jake still hadn’t kissed me, so maybe I was worried that we were moving along too far without discovering whether or not we had any chemistry. Maybe I felt self-conscious, because I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong. I internalized my frustrations with myself (because no matter how I tried, I still couldn’t find anything wrong with Jake) and checked out a couple of really harsh dating books about how I’m going to die alone, because I’m a bitch. I even tried to tell myself that I was really 33 and had traveled back in time for a second chance with this great guy. Finally, I had some time with Gaily, who I can’t seem to avoid telling everything.

Me: “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. It’s not that I’m convinced that this is the last guy on the planet that could be compatible with me, but there’s just nothing wrong with him and I still want to sabotage things, because I’m a stupid cunt! He opens doors for me, pays for everything, laughs at my jokes; I liked being with him and enjoyed having his arm around me and I’m going to be eaten by house cats!”

Aside from just verbalizing all of the wonderful qualities Jake had, I also asked Gail if she’d ever had the inclination to bolt in her early days with Terry.

Gail: “Well, you know that I’m a first date kisser…”
Me: “So they say, you whore.”
Gail: “Well, we were on our third date and Terry still hadn’t kissed me. It was starting to make me really self-conscious. I got to the point where I felt like I was done if he didn’t kiss me soon. I think that was the only problem, though.“

After talking things through, I felt a lot better about the whole thing and was thrilled that I had continued responding to Jake’s texts and made plans with him for Wednesday night: date five. We were going to dinner and to see Ant-Man. Once again, I was excited to see how things went. The moment of truth rolled around and…

I can’t figure it out. I don’t know what was wrong with me, because I really like this guy. He’s funny, intelligent, and quietly chivalrous. He humors my weird exaggerative rants and my Family Guy-esque breakaway side stories. He seems to really enjoy being around me and find me attractive and he’s really pretty cute. He took the wrong turn four times and never showed any truly scary road rage. At the movie, he raised the armrest himself, much earlier in the show, and we sat with his arm around me through the majority of it. He didn’t even mock me when I buried my face in his chest and covered my ears, because I knew the lamb wasn’t gonna make it. It was just comfortable and I can honestly say that a lot of that getting-to-know-you awkwardness has faded. All we had left was the kiss.

Jake drove me home, we talked in his truck for awhile, and once again, we stood by my door and talked for ages. He never asked to come in and we even commented on how bad we are at ending things at a decent hour, but how that’s a good sign. Jake had his arm against the door by my head and I was sure he would kiss me… when I started to get really, really dizzy.

I gave blood the other day. It’s been really hot in the South this week. I had deliberately been trying to drink less liquid that day, because it’s embarrassing to pee 13 times on a date. You know what else is embarrassing?

Me: “I’m really… I feel really light-headed all of the sudden. I think I need to go inside.”
Jake: “Okay. Are you alright?”
Me: “Yeah. I jus-”

… and I woke up on the concrete to Jake asking if I was okay and telling me he was going to call 911.

Me: “Nope. I’m good. Don’t call 911.”
Jake: “You’re good? You just passed out. You hit your head pretty hard.”
Me: “Don’t call 911.”
Jake: “Well, I’m not going to now that you’re talking to me. You wanna sit up?”
Me: “You know… actually, I think I’m good here for a second.”
Jake: “Okay, no rush.”
Me: “I’m really sorry. This is super embarrassing. This is awful.”
Jake: “Don’t apologize. It’s fine.”
Me: “Wow. If we hadn’t been talking for two hours, this would look really bad for you.”

Oh, yeah. I made a date rape joke.

Me: “I don’t just like… do this. This isn’t like… a thing.”
:: in hindsight, this was a lie, cuz this shit happens to me constantly ::
Jake: “Well, that’s good to hear.”
Me: “Did I fall on my hand?”
Jake: “I don’t think so, why?”

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Jake helped me up and watched to make sure I got up the stairs safely. I calmly and rationally got a glass of water and texted Gail.

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I’m pretty sure Jake took the date rape joke more seriously than I intended. Who’d have thought, right? I’m certain he’d have come up with me to make sure I was alright, had he ever been in my apartment. He did offer, but I was too embarrassed to accept. Apparently I scared him pretty badly, but I don’t think he wanted to risk it appearing as if he were taking advantage of the situation, based on his morning text to see if I was okay.

7-23-15 1On the bright side, it appears he still wants to see me, so my awkwardness at least brings this boy to yard.

I need to be crystal clear, here. At no point did I actually fear that Jake had drugged me. For one, while I wouldn’t trust the man with my PIN just yet, I do pretty much trust him not to rape me, or I wouldn’t be letting him drive me places. Two, it had been hours since I’d eaten or had anything to drink and at no point was Jake alone with any of it. Three, I’m no Olivia Benson, but I’m pretty sure that men who do drug women don’t wake them fully clothed on their front porch by gently patting their cheek and insisting they’re going to call 911. Finally, that’s not how date rape drugs work, because I felt completely fine five minutes later (aside from the head trauma). No. Jake is not a sexual predator. These things just happen to me. I am just a dork… with a mild concussion, busted knuckles, a bruised shoulder, and still no kiss.

Gramma: “Maybe you can just tell him you swooned.”

Yeah. I’m a fucking Disney princess.

A Third Date on the Fourth of July

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Gail: “At least I never refused to go on a second date with a guy, just because I didn’t like his brand of microwave.”
Me: “Yeah. I’ve never known what brand of microwave a guy had after the first date, you whore.”

We’re practically Disney sisters.

I’m never going to live down the number of men I’ve refused a second date, no matter how legit the reason. That being said, Saturday night, on the Fourth of July, I had my second ever third date with Fluid Engineer.

Last I wrote about Fluid Engineer, I had to turn down the opportunity to go out, because of such short notice (as in 12 hours). He was willing to make the drive, but we didn’t have any concrete plans and I didn’t feel like brainstorming for an activity at the, fairly literal, last minute. I had suggested we find something cheap or free to do, because although I think it’s chivalrous for the man to pay, I also don’t think he should have to spend $50 every time he sees me. Knowing that there would be several festivals over the holiday weekend, I suggested we go to one of those.

Over the next week, we texted daily, though not necessarily at length. It was nice, but not overwhelming and he always kept it appropriate. Though he’s never flaked before, I kind of expected him to cancel on me as the holiday neared. Perhaps some last minute family plans would be made and he’d decide he’d rather spend time with his family than getting to know me, as Engineer 114 did. Cautiously, I avoided making family plans of my own and hoped for the best. Ultimately, we decided on the Springfield festival at 5:30.

The date started off a little rocky, when I arrived at the park and Fluid Engineer wasn’t texting back. For a moment, I was certain I’d been stood up again and was frustrated by the idea that I might have to spend my holiday alone with Netflix and some tears. I reminded myself that he’s been meaning to get a new phone and just parked my car and waited, periodically muttering “Dude… fucking text me back.” Finally, his truck pulled up and the explanation was exactly as I’d suspected. His phone had died and he had no way to ask where I was, since the park had three separate entrances.

The festival seemed dead, but Fluid Engineer assured me he’d driven around to the other side and it was quite busy. He was right, but only after we’d walked a mile did I think it might’ve been a good idea to bring the blanket I’d packed with us. I suggested we walk back to get it and was a little worried that he’d be annoyed, even passive aggressively, but he was totally cool with it and we talked and became comfortable with each other again as we walked back. I grabbed some sodas from the backseat and Fluid Engineer very sweetly offered to carry the blanket in the heat. Of course, I didn’t just thank him sincerely… but also made a joke about how I was clearly doing my share by carrying the sodas.

What I wouldn’t give for the superpower to shut up.

Throughout the evening, Fluid Engineer was casually chivalrous. He’d opened the door for me at my car and walked on the street side each time. It didn’t appear to be an effort on his part, just natural, which I appreciate. If I don’t want to pretend to be fucking precious, I don’t want him to put on a front, either. But I truly appreciated all of his little gestures. The live music was insanely loud, so we chose a spot quite a ways out to sit and eat our free watermelon and ice cream. We chatted and eventually I commented that I’d like to get something to eat from one of the food trucks, wondering aloud if they took cards, because I didn’t have any cash. I wasn’t fishing, here. I was genuinely planning to buy my own food. Dinner wasn’t in our plans and I suppose it’s habit to pay for myself. Fluid Engineer, however, assured me that he had cash and he paid for both meals and shared his fried green tomatoes with me.

All was going well and the conversation was really flowing, so naturally, I had to throw a wrench into the works. You see, I’d gone to the restroom while Fluid Engineer got the food, so he hadn’t asked if I wanted a Gatorade, but he did have two of them, so I thought one might be for me.

Me: “So… um… is one of those for me or is this a weird question?”

Subtle, I ain’t.

Fluid Engineer told me more about his family and we laughed and chatted and generally enjoyed each other’s company. Physically, we were still a bit awkward, not wanting to sit too closely or too far away, but it was a… comfortable awkwardness? It wasn’t painful. It was natural getting-to-know-you awkwardness. He mentioned that he’d told a friend about me and that made me all giddy. I talked a little about Gail and my family and he told me more about his. I’d texted Gail earlier… “On another date and he’s still pretty keen.”… only barely catching myself when I almost sent it to Fluid Engineer, the last person I’d texted. Seeing my notifications light up, I knew she might be concerned.

Me: “Hold on. Gail’s making sure you’re not raping me.”
Fluid Engineer: “Did I tell you I had to stop for a [unintelligible word]?”
He has a really thick Texan accent and I was willing to concede that what I could’ve sworn he said couldn’t possibly be the case. I was so certain, had it been our first date, I’d have left.
Me: ::still looking at my phone, hiding my expression:: “What did you just say?”
Fluid Engineer: “I had to stop and buy a [unintelligible word].”
I heard it again. There’s no way he’d say that. That’s completely out of character… especially twice.
Me: ::finally looking at him, to watch as he speaks:: “A what?”
Fluid Engineer: ::clearly confused:: “A charger.”
Me: “OH! A CHARGER!”
Mortified, I went back to my phone to respond to Gail.
Fluid Engineer: “What did you think I said?”
Me: ::still looking at phone:: “Not that.” 
Fluid Engineer: “Was it inappropriate?”
Me: “Yup.” ::finally looking at him:: “I thought you said ‘Trojan.'”

Gail: “That would be a really weird thing to say, period. ‘Did I tell you I had to stop for a single condom?'”
Me: “Actually, it would’ve been more like ‘Did I tell you I had to stop for one Durex?'”

Fortunately, Fluid Engineer thought this was hilarious, but didn’t even really tease me about it. The conversation just went back to normal and finally the lights went out for the fireworks show.

Me: “You got that Trojan, now?”

I am such a dork.

After the fireworks ended, we stayed on the blanket talking for the longest time. I was in a dress so I was being eaten alive by mosquitoes. I was pretty sure there would be a visible bruise on my ass, because there are only so many ways to sit on the ground in a dress. I didn’t want to end things, though, because I was genuinely enjoying Fluid Engineer’s company and I realized this was the first Fourth of July I’d spent with a man since I was married and it had gone so well. We walked back to our cars, him carrying the blanket and walking on the street side again, and stood by my car talking for ages. I don’t think either of us wanted to end things. At one point, I was pretty sure he was going to kiss me, so in my nerves of having only actually kissed two people, I started babbling like an idiot.

Any time on that superpower…

Fluid Engineer settled for putting his arm around me and didn’t push it, but didn’t seem irritated either. When I told my friend Dana, she assured me I was “gonna lose him” because we didn’t “make-out with tongue,” but Fluid Engineer seems to disagree. The fates have aligned and my work schedule has been changed to give me Monday night off, so we’re planning the – unprecedented for Belle – FOURTH DATE.

So, there it is. Over the last month, we’ve been out three times and I’ve yet to convince myself that there is something fundamentally wrong with this man. I actually happen to like him. He’s laid-back, yet quite intelligent. He’s not threatened by my level of education (it’s a thing), nor does he feel the need to belittle my career. He texts often enough that I know he’s truly interested, but not so much that I feel like he’s stroking a lock of my hair as he does it. Despite living an hour away, he’s made every effort to see each other during his limited time off. He seems to want something serious, but doesn’t expect to impregnate me tomorrow. Perhaps most importantly, he seems amused by my humor and awkwardness. So many men on online dating sites talk about how they want someone sweet. I’m a lot of things y’all, but sweet sure ain’t one of them… and this one doesn’t seem to mind. I like him. He’s still pretty keen. He even Facebook friended me and I accepted… another first.

Could we maybe go out when I’m ovulating?

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Stephen King does this thing where he talks about a feeling or thought process as if it were commonplace and his readers totally get where he’s coming from, when in reality, we’re all left a touch scarred just from reading it.

It’s possible that absolutely no one will relate to this post but, like King, I wouldn’t write it if I didn’t think anyone would understand.

This past week, Fluid Engineer and I have been trading messages, trying to find a time to get together again. He asked on Monday, but didn’t say anything more about meeting Wednesday until literally less than 12 hours from when we would’ve had to get together. He’s not from the ‘burbs, so I’m fine with a touch of the back and forth discussion of what to do, but not at the last minute. Had he texted with an actual suggestion, I’d have been game, but we didn’t have time for the “I don’t care, what do you want to do?” bit, so I politely declined until next week. I was a little disappointed, though, because this is the time of the month that I am most likely to… well, like him. 

One reason I knew Fluid Engineer was worth my time was that I still wanted to see him after our first date, despite the fact that I was just about to… how to put this delicately… curl into the fetal position for a day and bleed like a stuck pig.

Okay, okay, I promised I’d try not to be too detailed in this post, so I’ll just say that I am physically ill for a couple of days out of the month. I’ve missed work before and I cannot eat. The second I get me some of that elusive health insurance, I’m going to see a doctor who doesn’t call me a liar or shame me for not sleeping with every man I meet, because it wasn’t like this before my miscarriage. I may be dying.

Fortunately, I met Fluid Engineer literally hours before I got sick, but I was at a point where I kind of only want to speak to people if I’m required. Even the most well adjusted woman can’t possibly want to have an online date at this point in her cycle. I’ve had to plan enough dates around such a busy schedule that I’ve realized the odds of my wanting to see a man again are substantially lower if I feel like my body is metabolizing itself. It’s not that I’m an intensely difficult person to deal with for a week out of the month. In fact, I think this is a terrible excuse to treat anyone with disrespect and uttering it pretty much disgraces all women everywhere. No, this isn’t some kind of bait and switch where a guy meets me and I’m smiling and pleasant and then sees me two weeks later and I go all velociraptor on him.

As a person, even on my worst day, I’m just more likely to burst into tears because a dog died in a book and that’s sort of the only time I cry anyway. For realz, I had to concentrate to not tear up on my second date with Fluid Engineer, because we saw Jurassic World and those poor dinosaurs died because the uber dinosaur was killing them for sport and they looked so sad…

… yeah. I didn’t shed a tear when Dumbledore died, but they stopped drawing the dinosaur and it broke my heart.

I control myself because I’m an adult and I acknowledge that other people have feelings, especially the ones I love. That doesn’t mean I want to try with a stranger, when I don’t feel well. The reverse is true, also, though. I’ll give a guy a second date, despite his having 40 pounds on his profile picture, just because my ovaries are doing gumball machine cosplay. I’m not even kidding, y’all. The men I’ll give a chance when I’m ovulating… it’s worse than doing shots. Fortunately, most of these encounters occur online and by the time we start discussing meeting, I’ve come down from my cursed natural high and realized that I can’t date a man without a job, the ability to wear a ball cap without a flat bill, or who happens to be closer to my dad’s age than mine.

On an average date, however, I have to fight my natural instincts to be a judgmental cunt. His voice is too high, or his fingers are too short, or his eyes are too close together, or he squints too much or I’M GOING TO DIE ALONE. So, I’m really disappointed that I wasn’t able to fit a date in during the time of the month that I’m guaranteed not to convince myself never to speak to Fluid Engineer again because I think his walk is too jaunty. I just want to fall in love, but it’s so hard to do when I’m such a hopelessly self-sabotaging bitch!

My Secret Dates with Fluid Engineer

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I used to follow these two dating bloggers. They weren’t dating bloggers in the sense that I’m a dating blogger, sharing a bad date one week, a funeral the next, a rant on gender equality after that, and eventually another bad date. They specifically started their blogs to discuss their dating lives, their search for love. Regardless, I enjoyed reading them. I wanted to read about that date that didn’t end in disaster and finally led to a second date, a third, an “I love you.” They stopped writing, though. Maybe they’re busy with wedding plans. Maybe they gave up the search and are focusing on their careers and friendships. Maybe they’re still going on bad dates. I felt cheated, though. I was a loyal follower, reading each post, writing comments and giving advice when they asked for it. I was happy for them when they had a good time with a man and frustrated for them when they never got a call back. I promised myself that I’d never do that to my readers.

Today, I have 1,352 followers on this blog. I don’t know how many people are actually reading, sharing in my joys and pain, my laughter and frustration. I don’t get a lot of feedback, but that’s okay. I’ve had this blog for nearly three years and I’ve written consistently, because I enjoy writing. I’ve had a blog, in some sense, for the last… 12 years? Before that, it was paper journals. No. I’m not going anywhere. Y’all will likely read about my wedding, my first child, my family vacations. So, I’ve never really felt in danger of breaking the above promise. I won’t just disappear on you. But… I’ll apparently keep those good dates from you.

I suppose it started with Engineer 114. He was out of town a lot and we were just texting, but I was hopeful. Politician came next. I liked him well enough. There was a possibility for a second date. Then there was Oil, who I really did like. Finally, there was Dell, who I didn’t find attractive, which made me feel guilty and judgmental. I didn’t share about any of these men until after the fact, though. Week after week, I brainstormed for writing topics, even when I’d just been on a date. I’ve been doing exactly what I resented from my dating bloggers. So… I haven’t written about Fluid Engineer.

Fluid Engineer is 30, never married, no kids. He turns 31 on October 14, which he only told me once and I remembered, because Gaily is right and it’s weird that I text her every September 14 to remind her to wish her first ever boyfriend a happy birthday. But, that means he’s a Libra to my Virgo, like Gail and we seem to get along mighty fine. He lives about an hour away, but he’s not especially attached to his location, since he’s originally from Texas. We didn’t text long before our first meeting, which is how I prefer it.

My first date with Fluid Engineer was lunch and it was just… nice. He drove to me and he paid. In regards to appearance, he just looks like a guy. I likely wouldn’t notice him on the street, one way or another. He told me I was the first woman he’d met who actually looked like her picture. I may have called his family racist.

FE: “We play Chinese Christmas every year.”
Me: “Chinese Christmas?”
FE. “Yeah. Haven’t you heard of Dirty Santa? It’s like that.”
Me: “… just racist.”

Fortunately, he laughed. He walked me to my car, where he very sweetly tried to open my door for me, before I’d unlocked it. Naturally, I narrated the awkwardness.

Me: “That’s still locked, but that’s very sweet of you.”

We made plans for a second date pretty immediately, texting over his six days on and planning to get together on one of his three days off. He seemed interested, but not creepily so. I looked forward to our second date, which ended up being Jurassic World in 3D at the mall. We walked around the mall and talked. He bought chocolate Swiss Army knives for his niece’s birthday and I teased him about his first time in the Big City. He sounds like a bit of a redneck, so I’m glad we never talked on the phone and I couldn’t be a judgmental cow, because he’s really quite intelligent. He’s nice and was chivalrous enough to pay for lunch and we talked until I realized I was going to be late for work if I didn’t call my Gramma and ask her to take the dog out so I could go straight to the library. Fluid Engineer even wanted to see each other again, before he started his next six days on, but I felt like that might be a bit much a bit soon, so I asked if we could do something next week. Since then, we’ve been texting and he’s still pretty keen.

So… why the secrecy?

Well, I suppose I’m embarrassed to tell y’all about my eventual possible rejection. That’s second only to admitting that I sabotaged things with a perfectly nice guy. I mean, statistically speaking, it’ll be one or the other. It’s not like any of my previous dates haven’t ended poorly. That’s the point of this blog, though… to chronicle my life. I want to look back and read my first impression when it does go well. I want to remember it all. I want to share it all. I also do so anonymously, so I really have nothing to fear.

I need to get married, y’all.

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That’s right. No more of this Women’s Lib shit. I need to get married, yesterday.

“Why?” you might ask?

Did Catherine inform me that I’m her only single friend? Did I get into another car accident, because I’m the worst driver in the world? Did I try to fix the garbage disposal with a hammer? Did another girl from high school post pictures of her second child? Did I drop the fully decorated Christmas tree on myself, again?

Yes.
Define “accident.”
Not again.
Several of them.
No. It’s June. Pay attention. 

I can handle all of those things, though. I can pick glass out of my appendages all by myself. I can pay someone to change my oil. I can call maintenance when I accidentally flush a roll of toilet paper whole. I can carry the groceries up the stairs, no matter how many bags there are. I can see a movie and have dinner alone. I am Tinkerbell, though, only capable of one emotional extreme. So what’s the source of my obvious sudden panic?

Me: “I TOLD YOU THERE WAS A MOUSE!”
Gramma: “What?”
Me: “I TOLD YOU THERE WAS A  MOUSE AND YOU WERE ALL ‘OH, YOU’RE SEEING THINGS,’ BUT NOW I’VE SEEN THE MOUSE AND IT’STHESIZEOFAPORCUPINE!”
Gramma: “Belle, I cannot understand you when you’re screaming.”
Me: “I saw the mouse! I knew there was a mouse and I told you there was a mouse!”

Naturally, when I saw the mouse in the bathroom, I locked the dog in with it and waited for the sounds of mayhem. Fierce predator, you know?

Hunting dog, my ass. When I opened the door, Jude happily pranced out, ready to play, closely followed by a mouse. Completely fucking useless. Someone’s going on Craigslist. That was when I called my Gramma.

Gramma: “That little mouse is not gonna hurt you, Belle.”
Me: “They’re diseased!”
Gramma: “I don’t know what you’re yellin’ about. I don’t remember ever being that afraid of a mouse.”
Me: “That’s because you’re 109, grew up in the country, and used to sleep on a BED OF MICE!”

Have you ever heard an eye roll through the phone? I have.

Gramma: “You should have been more concerned about the roaches than one little field mouse.”
Me: “Do you remember me the summer I had roaches?”

Me: “I’M GETTING MARRIED!”
Gramma: “What?”
Me: “I changed my mind! I’m getting married!”
Gramma: “What are you talking about?”
Me: “I HAVE TO GET MARRIED SO SOMEONE CAN KILL THE MICE!”

So, that’s it. That’s my limit. Fuck this shit. It’s not about having children or someone to care for me in my old age. I need a husband for my pest control concerns, because I’m not sleeping until that trap reads “caught.”

 

Disastrous Dates with Dell: the Importance of Honesty and Attraction

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There was a time, when a truly awful date for me was a delightful blog post. Lately, though, I’ve noticed a shift in my thinking. I suppose it started with Engineer 114, around the New Year. After he bailed on me for no reason, after weeks of texting while he was out of the country, I was both furious and completely done with him. So, I got back on PoF and, by chance, reconnected with Politician, who I happened to have just begun messaging before I got involved with 114.

Politician and I met after a few weeks of messaging He was 35, had never been married, worked at the state capitol, was protestant and didn’t appear to take issue with my Catholicism. But… he was 35 and unmarried and he hadn’t been engaged, or in extensive schooling, or serving his country. When he talked about settling down, it was in a vague sense, like a man 10 years younger. “One day”, he might like to get married and have children. I’m sorry dude, but if you’re from a small town in the South and you’re saying “one day” at 35, it’s just not something you want. That’s cool and all, but don’t date the gal who’s aiming for that. Perhaps he realized this mistake, though, because I never heard from him after our date. We didn’t have a bad time. We talked. It was nice. I left on the thought that I’d be willing to go on another date, if he asked, but knew I wouldn’t be disappointed if he didn’t. I was right. I wasn’t.

After Politician came Oil. Oil and I had chatted on Tinder last fall. We’d been texting and I dropped off the face of the earth, because seriously, dude, it’s Tinder. I recently found him on Match, and although he looked familiar, I couldn’t recall where I’d seen him and sent a message. When Oil explained that we’d talked before, we quickly set a date to meet. This time, I thought things went really well. We met for coffee at the Starbucks inside Barnes and Noble and walked around talking and looking at books. He’d gained some weight since his pictures were taken, but he wore it well. We laughed and seemed to get along. I left with a good feeling about the whole thing. Then, he began the Fade Away. For realz, yo, if you don’t intend to see someone after a first meeting, just shut the hell up. Don’t string them along. It’s worse than just never talking to them again. I quickly realized what he was doing and responded just enough that he could build on it and sent no more when he didn’t. If a man’s not interested in me, I’m sure as hell not chasing after him. I was disappointed, though. I mean, he’d gained at least 20 pounds, so any issues with my appearance would’ve been downright hypocritical. The conversation flowed. Why was that not at least worth a second meeting?

…. aaaaaand there it is. I’ve officially reached the point I’ve been trying to force myself to reach for the last year. I am finally to a place where I’m willing to go on a second date with anyone who wasn’t a mountain troll or a complete ass. Therefore, when someone else isn’t, that’s a bad date, because what could he possibly be seeking, beyond laughter and surprisingly few awkward pauses? Did we just not have that “spark”? Because that’s bullshit. The “spark” is another word for Love at First Sight or Soulmates. It’s pretend. It was crafted to sell YA novels about teenagers dying of cancer. The only real connection one can hope to have with a stranger is conversational. If that exists and you aren’t willing to pursue it, then have fun dying alone… which is exactly the sentiment that lead me to the other extreme in my absolutely disastrous dates with Dell.

Dell was 33 years old and not very attractive in his photos. He was successful and had a lot of nerdy hobbies mixed with a lot of country hobbies. He was sociable and seemed to be putting in a real effort. I told myself that appearance was secondary to these characteristics and I still feel that that was correct. The man wasn’t hideous in his photos. He was shorter than I’d prefer, but taller than I am, at 5’7″. He was stocky and appeared to be a little heavy, but mentioned a lot of active hobbies. Almost every photo had his niece in it, so he was clearly close to his family and liked kids. I had high hopes that personality would ultimately take over and then I would find him attractive.

Dell and I first met for dinner at the same restaurant where I met Politician. I got out of the car, headed for the door, and my first thought was that it couldn’t be him.

Y’all, there have not been a lot of dates where I’ve considered just turning around and leaving. This was probably only the second… because this man was not “a little heavy.” He was easily 40 pounds heavier than his least flattering photo… at 5’7″. I’m 5’6″, so 40 pounds on him is the equivalent to 40 pounds on me, and it was all in his belly. I wasn’t going to be shallow, though. It wasn’t even Gaily’s voice this time that asked me if I was really going to write this guy off over something trivial. I mean, clearly, I was just focused on appearance because it was our first meeting. If I wasn’t going to give him a chance, then I needed to leave right then and not let him buy me dinner.

As we took our seats and I fervently told myself that I was being too critical, Dell struggled to slide into the booth and, I am ashamed to admit, the first thing that popped into my mind was…

I wonder if his erect penis even clears his belly.

I felt horrible for even thinking that, but my ex-husband was morbidly obese and it’s a thing, folks. I spent four years with someone who had to ask to be seated at a table every time we went out and that’s all I could think about for the first 10 minutes of our conversation as I distractedly answered so many questions it felt like I was being quizzed. Finally, I realized that Dell wouldn’t be playing Quizmaster if I’d join the fucking conversation and I pulled my irreparably damaged by divorce head out of my ass. From that point on, I was a delight. I asked questions about his life and his former career as a policeman. I told him about my career and was pleased that he was respectful and interested. The conversation felt a little forced, but I blamed my lack of physical attraction. We talked about our hobbies and ironically, staying in shape came up.

Dell: “I’ve actually gained 20 pounds in the last few months.”

Um… yeah. I noticed. Apparently, so did he. It, however, was still not only 20 pounds since his photos. I would not be surprised to discover that the man was just barely into the morbidly obese category. Now, I’ve been morbidly obese, y’all. A few years ago, I lost over 90 pounds. It’s not that I hate fat people. I’ve been fat people. I’m still not skinny people at a size 8/10. I have also never lied about it. He clearly knew that his photos were not an accurate representation of him. After all was said and done, I even showed Gail.

Gail: “Well, yeah. You can kind of tell he’s heavy in this one. He looks pretty big there.”
Me: “No, no, no. I saw that one. I was prepared for that one. It was that plus 40 pounds.”
Gail: “Oh. Wow.”

At this point, I was legitimately frustrated with him. I was in a really awkward place, because he wasn’t honest. I didn’t want to blow off what was otherwise a very nice guy just because of his size, though, so I agreed to a second date the following week.

Over the next week, I ended up convincing myself that I’d exaggerated the entire thing. It wouldn’t be the first time. I mean, the guy was nice and chivalrous and successful. Surely, I was just being a bitch and I’d realize the error of my ways when we met again. Spoiler alert: no.

We met last Friday at a local sushi restaurant and I was actually looking forward to realizing how wrong I was. Dell was going to walk up and I was going to see that, although he was slightly heavier than his photos depicted, it was nothing so drastic. Then, I saw him walking to the door and thought that his size just couldn’t be healthy. He looked physically uncomfortable and was visibly sweating. At 33 years old, I was already looking at this guy and worried about his physical well-being. It’s not just appearance. I want to be able to chase my children around the backyard. I want to be able to go to Disney World and not stop every 30 minutes for a rest, because the cardio of leisurely walking is just overwhelming. I know what that’s like, because I’ve fucking done it. I’m not going to lie, either. It’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing to explain to someone that your reasonably young husband is breathing so hard because of walking. It’s upsetting to never be able to go on a roller coaster because the belt won’t fit across his lap. It’s embarrassing to watch your date’s booth slide across the floor from the table as he sits, because the seat isn’t bolted down and he doesn’t fit.

This time, the conversation did not flow, at all. It was much more obvious that we were forcing it along. I wished I hadn’t come. I felt just as lied to as I did on the first date and I felt like a horrible person for the fact that this was such a deal breaker for me. I’m not delusional. I know that pretty much everyone looks better with clothes on. I even prefer a slightly overweight man to a slender one. I just wasn’t attracted to Dell at all and felt genuine resentment at his blatant dishonesty. Again, I was sociable and fun and polite. I tried. I really did try, but when Dell asked if I needed to get back to my niece (where I’d been before the date) or if I still wanted to go do something together, I bailed. I couldn’t let the man spend another dime on me, when I knew I was done. I told him I’d promised Catherine I’d meet her at the bar for her birthday. He walked me to my car and we talked about going minigolfing this week, as a third date. We made tentative plans. He leaned in for a hug….

… went to kiss me…

… I turned away…

… and it was the most uncomfortable thing that has ever happened in time. 

I went to the bar that night, where Catherine and our friend Laura both asked how the date went.

Me: “Um. It was fine.”
Laura: “Fine?”
Me: “He was really nice. There just isn’t really anything there. He wasn’t very honest in his photos and there’s really no physical attraction. I don’t know how important that is.”
Laura: “It’s important. It may not be the most important thing, but it is important.”

Dell didn’t message me after that.

Me: “He went in for a kiss and I… um… may have turned it into an awkward hug.”
Gail: “Yeah. THAT’S why he hasn’t messaged you.”

I told Gail about the guilt I felt over not continuing to see him.

Gail: “It’s not as if you were married to this man and then ditched him when he gained weight. You’re just not willing to date a man who lives an unhealthy lifestyle. You’re not willing to start a relationship with all of the problems that come with that and that’s okay. You don’t owe him anything after two dates.”

So, obviously he picked up on my lack of interest, which is most definitely for the best. I hope he realizes why, even subconsciously. I hope he gets the spontaneous urge to upload some honest and recent photos, so that the next date he goes on goes better. So many stereotypes about online dating focus on women lying about their weight, but never (straight) men. It is equally and quite fairly frustrating to a member of either gender, though, to be shown a picture of someone to whom they think they can develop an attraction and be faced with a completely different person. I stand by both the man and the woman who feels angry or misled, because it really is an awkward place to be. We insist that appearance doesn’t matter at all and while I do believe we over emphasize it, if you can’t imagine wanting to see someone naked at 33, it’s unlikely to be any better at 43. I don’t regret that second date, because I’m left with no doubts that there wasn’t anything there; but also because I realize that while it’s great to put aside aside the trivial and meet the guy who’s 5’7″ or losing his hair or doesn’t have model good looks, ultimately attraction cannot be forced. I maintain my policy of going on a second date unless absolutely certain it’s not happening. I just may need to be a little more accepting of the latter. There were certainly less substantial reasons not to consider him.

Me: “I know it’s stupid and I would never blow someone off for just this, but… he said he loves Christmas Vacation. You know how much I hate Christmas Vacation.”

If I’m gonna sit through that terrible fucking movie, he’d better be even the slightest bit attractive to me.

What Deal Breakers Do I Possess?: Reasons Not to Date Me

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10912929_10204491640828512_775329358_nI totally forgot to cut my employee ID badge out of this photo the first time.

One of my Super Librarian duties is to create displays. Naturally, as 2015 takes root, I’ve put up a resolutions display. In doing so, I found the above title and I was just too curious to let it go. While the title is intentionally scandalous, a good deal of the advice within is pretty sound. Directed toward older single women, in the 35-dead bracket, the author’s perspective is pretty damned defeatist. I mean, for realz yo, were I single at 34 and reading this, I’d take up cutting again. Basically, the author is telling women to get off their high horses and acknowledge that the men they’re dating are human, while there are still men to date. It’s advice from a woman 15 years older, who wishes she’d known this stuff 15 years ago. Fascinating point of view. So, thinking back over my dating history, I tried to decide if there were any good men, who I may have passed up prematurely.

Geologist. This was perhaps the meanest post I’ve written about a man, chiefly because I admitted that the guy looked just like Gollum. It wasn’t just that he was unattractive, though. I mostly didn’t feel like I could relate to him on a personal level, at all. If I’d been less judgmental, could something have formed? Would it have been fair to continue seeing him, regardless of my lack of interest after three dates? I really don’t know.

Engineer No. 94. This guy was nerdy, not particularly attractive, loved anime and I was totally cool with that. We had a great conversation and I really put myself out there, by making it crystal clear that I wanted to see him again, but didn’t hear from him all weekend. In the online dating world, that really felt like the brush off to me. Just a text telling me he had a good time would’ve kept me from feeling rejected and I definitely would’ve been more encouraging when he mentioned meeting me again, rather than doing a fade away. Should I have addressed the issue instead? Was there possibly an explanation that he didn’t offer for some reason? I don’t know, but if I had it to do again, I probably would’ve gone on date number two.

That’s pretty much my list beyond Soldier, who was my first date after my divorce and helped me to realize that I was so not ready to date. In hindsight, I’m really not plagued by what might have been with anyone else I’ve met. There was always a clear deal breaker that I still find relevant, more often than not being that he was an asshole. I am a good practicing Catholic girl, though and very much believe that God brought this book into my life at this time, for a reason. I’m also pretty damned sure that that reason is Electrical Engineer. I’ve vaguely hinted that I’ve kinda, sorta, maybe got something going with a new guy and while I’m sure I’ll share the details at some point, that’s a different blog post. This one is about keeping a healthy, non judgy perspective while I get to know him.

I’ve already realized, in the past year or so, that I need to give guys more of a chance. So, as I’ve gotten to know Electrical Engineer, I’ve reminded myself to look beyond stupid little things that I might’ve dwelled on in the past. After reading this book, however, I realized something: I’m not the only one looking past inconsequential issues in an effort to get to know someone. That’s gotten me thinking. What, exactly, is Electrical Engineer looking past? What will he (or anyone else I get serious with) have to deal with in a relationship with me? What deal breakers might I bring to the table? Well, in the interest of self-awareness, here’s what I’ve got.

I’m 27 and have been divorced for four years.
I don’t intend to share this on a date, but zetus lapetus I have soooooo many psychological issues in regards to this.

I say the wrong thing… all the fucking time.
“Ugh. This pie is terrible… I mean, unless you made it, in which case, it’s just not my thing, cuz… I don’t like lime?”

Also, Gaily informs me that “shankraped” isn’t an appropriate word to use in an Olive Garden.

I’m loud and opinionated.
It’s not that I don’t respect your opinion. You’re just going to need a strong personality and voice for it to be heard… especially at family events with all of my aunts.

“It’s pretty clear, I ain’t no size 2.”
By American standards, I’m not fat, but I could stand to lose 20 pounds. There are certainly fitter women on the dating sites. 

I suck my thumb.
Not only is this super weird, but it’s also rooted in a history of abuse, which I’m sure seems less than stable.

I have mommy issues.
See above. Also, see the scars on my leg from all that cutting in high school. The plan is to hide these things until someone loves me and then he’s trapped.

I’m a know-it-all.
I base my thoughts and opinions on facts, but it can be exhausting to hear them on every single subject ever.

I’m more educated than most people.
This isn’t bragging. I have actually met men who clearly have issues with my education level.

I have a master’s degree and all the loans that go with it, but only work half time.
Between substitute teaching and my position as a librarian, I work my butt off to pay my own bills, but it’s an awful lot of school not to be full time. It’s unlikely a man will know right off how competitive my field is and that I’m moving along quite nicely. Regardless, I’ll never make the kind of money people often associate with a graduate degree.

I handle negative emotions poorly.
Seriously, there are some jokes normal people just don’t make. See above cutting joke.

I’m a terrible driver.
No, really. I will kill us all.

I’m nerdy and love nerdy things.
I have to remind myself that my Harry Potter/Superman obsession is to some, what another’s anime obsession is to me. If you’re not into those things at all, they can seem too nerdy, even juvenile. “Zetus lapetus” doesn’t help my case.

I own a lot of pink.
Me: “Can you hand me my wallet?”
Gail: “The pink thing?”
Me: “Well, that doesn’t really narrow down the contents of my purse, but sure.” 

While my favorite color doesn’t feature prominently in my decor or wardrobe, it does in my accessories. A man who’s interested in dating an educated woman could easily find this childish or annoying.

I’m extremely sexually insecure and inexperienced.
I’m like the least experienced non-virgin ever and I’m really not comfortable with that fact.

I won’t shut up.
I love to talk and, sometimes, have to make a conscious effort to listen, because I know that what I’m saying is interesting.

I’m too analytical.
Watching a movie or show with me is exhausting. I will point out historical inaccuracies and comment on how much everyone in In Time did not look 25. Not even close.

I don’t read bestsellers.
I’m a librarian. Pretty much everyone assumes this means I’ve read Gone Girl and The Kite Runner. I have not. I will not. I read articles and memoirs if I want heavy reading material. If it’s fiction, it’s going to end happily ever after with great sex. A man intrigued by my job title might be disappointed by my interest in highlander porn. 

I’m a perfectionist.
I will unravel the entire damned hat because I missed one loop. Crochet is another interest to jot down on the nerdy list. Also, who wants to take a quick trip to the mall 20 miles away and return this shirt, because one of the buttons is a little loose? Anyone?

I can be neurotic about weird things.
There is a place for the red plates. My media is organized by format and then alphabetically.

When I break, I break.
I can maintain emotional control better than most people. I really can. I can be mistakenly called “laid back.” However, when I reach my threshold, I am a complete drama queen. There are tears and wailed hyperbole. At the end of a really rough day, I require at least 30 minutes of silence and dark.

I’m redundant.
I repeat the same stories and jokes over and over again, because I forget who I’ve told.

I interrupt people.
Again, loud and opinionated from a family of same. We all talk over each other and no one thinks anything of it, but I have to put in genuine effort not to do this with everyone else and I often fail. I just get really excited about the subject. 

I listen to terrible music.
“Band-Aids don’t fix bullet holes…”
I sing it… poorly… and I blare it.

I watch terrible movies.
The Worst Witch. YouTube it. The entire movie is available and I can sing along. 

I have money issues.
I hoard food, just in case. I will drive to four different grocery stores just to save a few dollars. I’ll want for something for months, before talking myself into buying it, even though I’ve had the money all along. I sleep with my wallet within reach, because I had the worst marriage ever. 

… and I’m sure there are many more. I think making this list has been really helpful. It’s certainly going to help me overlook minor issues I might have with men, because really, if they can give me a chance, I can give them one.

What I Bring to the Table

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For the most part, all I ever write about is bad dates… because that’s all I ever have. I also just don’t feel comfortable writing much about a guy I’m still getting to know. My blog is 99% humor and I don’t feel like it’s particularly respectful to tell the blogosphere about any of the embarrassing or funny things he might have done or said on a good date… so I’ll tell you all about the ones I managed. Enjoy.

Belle on a date:

Do the fleece-lined leggings make me look like Gail when she wears support hose to bars? 

He’s three minutes late. I’m so getting stood up again. 

“Hi there. I’m glad you made it.”
Shit. It just sounded like I was giving him hell for being late. I’d better explain.
“Oh, I wasn’t like giving you a hard time for being late. I meant I was glad you were able to find it. I didn’t get us a table yet.”
Umm… yeah… cuz I’m not at a table. So glad I clarified that. 

Am I saying dude too much? I feel like I’m saying dude too much. Stop saying dude.

I don’t want to swear, in case he finds it offensive, but I feel like it’s just too soon for “oh, em jingles.” 

“I just love Seth Rogen’s dry sense of humor. That’s very much my humor. I was at Thanksgiving, talking to my cousin, who’s really artsy…”
No. No, no, no. You are not telling this story. STOP telling this story. 
“I asked him if he had any tattoos, yet.”
Find a way out of this story!
“When he told me no, that he wasn’t really into tattoos, I told him, very straight-faced, that I just had the two on my feet…”
Oh, there’s no way out. Just don’t grab your breasts for emphasis as you say it. 
“… and of course the bear claws under my breasts.”

How dorky is the “Awesome Librarian” t-shirt? Is it less dorky if I wear a football sweatshirt over it? 

Why did I suggest bowling?!?! I have to wear pants! I never wear pants, especially not on a date! I look like a fucking hobo! 

Oh, em jingles. Owning my own bowling shoes does not make me look cool. 

Wow. I am really bad at bowling for someone who owns their own bowling shoes. Is it cheating to use the eight pound ball if I still suck this much? 

“One time, I don’t even remember why we did this…”
Noooooo. Not another story!
“Gail didn’t have any plans and I had this date at the pub downtown. She was in a bar mood, so….
Say something else. Say, literally, anything else.
“… she basically secretly tagged along to spy on my date.”
NO MORE TALKING ON DATES!

Pretend Poise: The Time I Got Stood Up

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Me: “Ugh! I’m so tired of being alone, but all the men are losers!”
Gail: 

That pretty much sums up my dating attitude over the last few months: lots of hyperbole from me and put-upon sighs from Gail. I haven’t actually been trying since the disaster that was Assistant Manager giggling over my breakfast pastry Savior, though. I’ve mostly been enjoying the single life, that is drinking entire pots of coffee by myself, staying up all night to create dance routines with the dog, and having Once Upon a Time marathons for days on end.

Single life.

Once the shock that was another solo birthday had passed, I felt a lot less pressure to fall in love right now, right now, right now. Again, I vowed that, if I reached a point in my life where I felt like my chance for family was slipping away, I’d just have children on my own. After all, why would I pass up one of life’s great joys just because some stupid boy couldn’t follow a schedule? So, I was enjoying my time alone. I was absolutely not in Panic Dating Mode when Corrections Officer came along.

Gramma: “A corrections officer? Oh, that means he’s mean.”

“When my Gran tells me to run, I run.” – Sookie Stackhouse

Sigh. The one time Sookie Stackhouse had something useful to say.

Corrections Officer was an OKCupid user with a blank profile. He’d messaged me once before and I’d ignored him, because he was military and that’s all his profile really said. Then, he messaged again, about a month later, clarifying that he wasn’t in the service any longer and that he worked for the government. Men are usually terrible at choosing photos and his weren’t half bad, so I messaged back and asked him to tell me a little about himself. For the next couple of weeks, he’d text me briefly each day, letting me know he was interested, but not sitting outside my apartment with his hands down his pants. It was a nice balance, because clinginess freaks me out like Chandler Bing.

“Three text messages in two days?!??! Dude, crawl out of my ass! I have a life!” 

While no longer a true military man, Corrections Officer was still in the Reserves, so the first weekend we chatted, he had to go out of town, or we would have met then. Instead, we talked for an additional week, with the intention to meet last Saturday. I texted a day before to tell him that I thought we should probably make some more specific plans, so we decided on 7:00 and he asked what I liked to eat. Not wanting to be pushy, I again waited until about 1:00 on Saturday to ask exactly what he wanted to do. After a touch of “What do you want to do?/I really don’t care” – Dude, just let your testicles drop and make a fucking plan – he said to meet him downtown at the outdoor store and that we’d walk to a popular restaurant from there. The last time I heard from him was around 4:30, when I was still at the library.

stood up

I was excited, y’all… like legitimately reminding myself that we might not hit it off, excited. I even told all of my coworkers that I had a date. Despite the fact that Saturdays at the library are rough, I rushed home, redid my makeup, put on one of my many, many, Zooey Deschanel costumes (pretty much all I own), straightened my hair, and headed out. I arrived at the outdoor store five minutes ahead of time, stowed my purse in the trunk, and found a visible bench to sit on out front and waited…

… and waited…

At 7:10, I sent a text asking if I was in the right place…

… and waited…

At 7:20, I sent…

So, I’m not sure what happened, but without a response, I think I’m gonna head home.

Just to be certain, I tried calling Corrections Officer and got voicemail, doing a quick walk through inside, just to make sure he wasn’t browsing boats with his phone on silent. After trying to call a couple more times, I headed to my car, just ready to go home and plot my blog post over this horrendous event. Then my phone rang.

Y’all, I have a predate prayer. It goes a little something like this:

Jesus, please let this go well. Let this be someone worth my time and maybe even someone I could fall in love with… I mean, ‘with whom I could fall in love.’ I’m sorry ’bout that. If that’s not possible, could you please just let it not be awful? I’m so tired of terrible date stories. Finally, if it is awful, could you please give me the strength to conduct myself with grace and poise, no matter how horrifying things are? Thank you.

The above prayer is exactly why I’m proud of the way I responded when I heard Correction Officer’s cartoon redneck voice for the first time. I’m not even being petty. My daddy has spoken the words “That bobcat come flyin’ out from underneath” and I thought this guy’s accent was over the top.

Me: “Hello?”
CO: “Hey. What are you doing?”
Me: “Excuse me?” I was genuinely confused, not being sassy.
CO: “What are you up to?”
Me: “Ummm. I’m waiting outside the store for you.”
CO: “Oh. Yeah… I just got off work.”
Me: ::silence::
CO: “I got called in. It was like, a mandatory thing. There was a riot at the prison.”
Me: “Um. You could’ve told me.”
CO: “Yeah… I uh… didn’t have a phone.”
Me: “Okay. Well, I’m gonna go home now.”
CO: “Um. Okay.”
Me: “Have a good night.”

I get that things happen, folks. I do. But this guy could not have been less apologetic about the fact that I’d been waiting downtown (which is about 20 miles away), all dressed up, for over 30 minutes. I’m not even accusing him of lying. However, he’d texted me at 4:30. I know he isn’t allowed a phone inside the prison, but he absolutely had access to one before he entered. I deserved, at the very least, an “I just got called into work. I don’t know when I’ll be out and I won’t have a phone. Let’s postpone until 8:00.” Instead, he left me to feel more and more dejected by the minute, waiting for some kind of call. When he did call, I didn’t even get an apology… except as an afterthought.

stood up 2

I am really not a dramatic person, folks. I make wildly exaggerative declarations, as a joke, all the time; but short of insisting that eating the candy on the break room table was the worst thing that’s every happened to me, I’m pretty low-maintenance… until I crack. I’m not gonna lie, either. The poise totally ended with that text.

Me: “I’m gonna die alone!”
Gramma: “What happened?!”
Me: “I just got stood up! Now I’m gonna go home and eat cotton candy jelly beans for dinner and suck my thumb and start the process of dying alone!”
Gramma: “Well, who was it?”
Me: “The corrections officer that you said was mean, because he was a corrections officer, and you were right! It’s never gonna happen! I’m never gonna meet anyone and I can’t even be a cat lady, because the apartments won’t even let me have a cat! I’m never going to be able to have babies!”

Gramma: “Well, if he’s not more considerate than that, Belle, it’s for the best that you didn’t waste your time on him.”
Me: “I’m not crying over one stupid boy I’ve never even met, Gramma! I’m crying because they’re all stupid boys and I’m not gonna be able to have children!”
Gramma: “Oh, stop it. You are, too. When you least expect it…”
Me: “Oh, Gramma, I can promise you that sitting alone in front of an outdoor supply store, slowly realizing that you’ve been stood up, is exactly when you least expect it.”

The conversation didn’t exactly improve from there. It was pretty much just a lot of me exclaiming that there was no one left and my ovaries were rotting, with my Gramma offering to call Corrections Officer up and “give him a piece of [her] mind!” Eventually, I let her go, took off my makeup and set the dress aside for church in the morning. I curled up on the couch and ate my Jelly Belly dinner…

I took out a cheesy romance novel…

… and I cuddled the dog and told him all about how he was the only boy I’d ever need.

Me: “I’m so tired of awful dates.”
Gail: “Yeah… this one was exceptionally bad.”