May 2009 - Posts
When I met him at the bar in the Hotel Sofîtel where the fundraiser was taking place, Carter quickly surveyed my fetching Christmas-green dress and full, flowing hair, then deemed me acceptable to proceed inside the ballroom. He told me that I shouldn’t talk much, but answer in short, cheerful answers if spoken to. If anyone asked about the status of our “relationship,” I was to smile and say that we’re “just friends.” I was to have only one drink and not pig out on the hors d’oeuvres … nah, I just made that up!
“You don’t look like a mortician,” he said. I smiled the smile I smile every time I heard this observation.
He was spotted immediately upon entering the room and a small group of men approached us. He pulled my sleeve and asked me to be “on” for this group. Introductions were made and I was poised and ready for anything that came my way. All I was asked was the typical “how are you?” pleasantry. As soon as they parted company with us he told me that I was strikingly attractive, more so than any woman these people had ever seen him with. Eye bat! Hair toss!
We walked to a table to meet a few other people. Again, just the same basic question. The night proceeded this way for awhile and then we took our seat at an almost front-row table. It did feel exciting, and he was handsome and powerful to sit next to. And he smelled delicious! I occasionally glanced around to see if anyone was staring, trying to figure out who his new girlfriend was. I was only met with polite, stiff smiles.
Music started to signal dancing, but Carter had a seven AM meeting at the county building and needed to call it a night. I was so bummed because not only would we be parting ways soon, but I wouldn’t be able to show off my dancing from years of teaching dance at Arthur Murray.
Carter says he often misses out on a lot of fun, and because of that, he had to let a lot of nice women find more available men to date. He was afraid that when he did marry he might be working all hours, or traveling, and not be around for his wife and children.
“Career has always been stressed in my family, and I cannot let love or children take my dreams away.”
It was not what I wanted to hear, but at least I heard it now while I was absorbed in the hopes of a potential second date. I was way too traditional to accept that. I’d have ended up being that whiny, annoying wife who demanded his time and attention because I was ready for a participatory, full-time relationship, not living in the shadow of one. It would have never worked out, for the simple reason that I knew Carter would win every office he ran for. But after spending this time with him I found him to be a good man, so I wished Carter good night and good luck in his career aspirations, and told him he had my vote. Hearing that, he gave me the biggest smile of the evening.
I was starting to feel that there wasn’t someone out there who was going to “get” me. I’m just not a neat package looking for another neat package. I tried to explain my thoughts to my long-time, married friend, Jan.
“What I am finding are decent men who just don’t have what I’m looking for. Stability, good manners, and neatly parted hair are absolutely great qualities, but I want something beyond a nicely put together package.”
I was determined to make it to Track Day at Sears Point. The track is north of San Francisco and the ride up Highway 280 was delicious. There is nothing quite like a sunny day and clear roadway to help you feel alive and forget about a selfish man who couldn’t see my inner glow. I’m fabulous, dammit! My dreams of a GSXR 1000 prove it! Admittedly, I am a very novice sport bike rider, but instinctively know that pink leather is a super effective way to get attention, namely from manly men who fancy themselves as active sports enthusiasts. I guess I just don’t ride much due to my blind dating marathon.
I can’t wait to have my own bike, to sit on one, and make it go fast. Being a sexy girl on a bike and feeling superior to various ex-boyfriends would be mere icing on the cake. I clearly remember screaming in the hearse one day, an overflow of excitement of taking that same scenic freeway home on two wheels. This is something I had always wanted to do.
My main goal was simple: I wanted to prove to myself I could learn the skill of riding and become proficient. I tend to excel at things most girls don’t even attempt. But this was my good pal, Christie’s day on the new track at Sears Point. She had played with a printout of the new track map and tried to figure out the proper racing lines, and it kept me entertained for hours like a Sudoku puzzle when I got home from my disastrous date last night. Christie loves a challenge, in life and on the track, and today was a bit more risky than usual.
My cell phone showed a voice-mail from Candice waiting, and I knew she was asking if I’d scoped out more than the proper racing lines on the track. Duh! Of course! I wasn’t shoehorned into these ridiculous pants for my health. I thought about my prior dates and knew they were not the risk takers and strong-willed fellows that were out circling this track. With that thought, I phoned Candice back and emptied out the thoughts in my head.
“Where is the passion, the intensity, the drive to do and be something stronger and better? Where is the man who wants to ascend above it all, but does so in actions and lifestyle, rather than thoughts and words?” I was willing to bet he wasn’t out there in Dockers and a crisp shirt.
It was nearing evening now, and it dawned on my that it was Friday. Surprisingly, my dance card wasn’t full. My brother always refers to my dating life as my “dance card.” Every time I hear it, a little fantasy plays in my head that I have a small, leather book listing all the songs playing throughout a ball, and my gentlemen callers write their names in the card, next to the specific piece of music they wished to twirl me. Of course the card would be affixed to the delicate sleeve of my extraordinary ball gown, and I would have the most names. What a lucky girl!
Will phoned me one morning at the Gate of Heaven Catholic Cemetery where I was working, and introduced himself as the son of a recent decedent whose family I assisted. (Did ya get all that?) I didn’t remember him, but he assured me of his veracity with all the details he could recount. It seems that he spotted me in my black suit across the Garden of St. Michael in the cemetery. Technically that made this a blind date, because I did not recall ever seeing this person. I asked a few innocent sounding questions with checklist in hand, he e-mailed a photo which resembled Cary Grant, and I agreed to lunch.
He chose to meet at Antonio’s Nut House, which was surprising. I wouldn’t have guessed from our phone tête-à-tête that Jamaican Me Crazy cocktails and a mechanical gorilla would be to an attorney’s taste. But he was currently reading "When You Ride Alone, You Ride With Bin Laden," by Bill Maher, so I was genuinely intrigued. This date started out fun, like Twenty Questions. He asked what I was currently reading.
“Funeral Customs the World Over," circa 1960. It was lent to me by my friend, Becks, who is currently working on an ancestry research project and gives tours of headstone symbolism in local cemeteries.”
Favorite smells, he wanted to know?
“Garlic being sautéed, and garlic residue on my hands. I also do a double take when I smell someone smoking a clove cigarette. It reminds me of being sixteen and living for the weekend when I could go to downtown Portland and dance at the Plaza.”
Foods I disliked?
“Anything with walnuts, plus rhubarb, mincemeat, pecan, and pumpkin pie. And custardy stuff, such as flan—nasty! Haggis, tripe, and don’t get me started on foie gras. Marzipan, orange marmalade, and that hideous fall appetizer of brie with cranberries and nuts melted on top. And no green peppers, except diced small in a stir-fry dish.”
My first job?
“My cousin Sue and I worked at her family’s gift shop at Casa de Fruta in Hollister one summer for less than minimum wage due to the fact we were ten years old at the time. I recall we were let go in a few days due to extreme rowdiness.”
And then he wanted me to tell him what was always in my vehicle.
“Anti-Freeze, a flare, bungee cords, and remnants of cat stench. Last summer all the cats in my neighborhood thought my topless Jeep was their traveling litter box.”
He asked if I still drove that Jeep and I answered with a passionate “Absolutely!” That was all he needed to know. He was instantly disgusted by me. It seemed that Will had a button pushed that he couldn’t get unstuck. My last answer was his version of a red flag. The tone of the date went downhill from that point on. I wanted to say, “Hey, buddy, it’s not like I asked the cats to pee in there!”
Will was dying to pay the bill and be on his way. I made sure to give an enthusiastic wave and colossal smile as I opened my Jeep door and merrily hopped in. Later, Skater! Obviously, those cats did more than soil my Jeep; they took a dump on blind date #4, too. I guess I don’t really care, but now there’s someone out there who’ll always tell the story of the disgusting girl in the cemetery office where grandma is buried.
“So, I’ve been hitting the scene, searching for SNMs.”
Wha? Huh?
“Single, Never Marrieds: men who’ve never been married and are still single.”
I just felt like it was something provoking to throw on the table since I keep hearing how prior marriages are such deal breakers for the age bracket of women I was currently noshing with. All eyes are now on me, so I chatter away, aimlessly.
“I had a date with a mechanic the other night and let’s just say I should have first called the Federal Highway Safety Administration to see if I could borrow a crash test dummy suit. I had another date set for the very next night, and I kind of regretted accepting that date, even though I’d scheduled it a week back. I just wanted to stay home after the evening with Rod, but this guy looked pretty fabulous—at least, in his picture. He had a vague Robert Redford meets Joe DiMaggio aura in the black-and-white photo posted on his personal Web site. I really dig a bit of flow to a man’s hair.”
“Computer dating? Oh, my God! Did you place an ad, or did you answer his? How come you haven’t told me about this yet?”
“Neither,” I was happy to clarify.
“I was set up, and after a long conversation with Trace, we mutually decided to exchange photos.”
A lesson I learned early on in my blind dating vocation was that men always want a photo before meeting. Always. Even if I was talked up greatly by whoever set us up, they weren’t satisfied. Men are just visual creatures and I often feel what a girl has on the outside is much more of a draw than her innerness for them. But I was guilty of wanting a photo, too, like I mentioned to Candice.
Mary pulled her chair closer to the table. Sandra poured more wine into the glasses. I guess they thought I might have some great bashing drama for them. I had a feeling I was about to let them down and not be deemed worthy to be asked back for girlie time again, but I continued to tread lightly.
“Trace and I went to an art exhibition at the San Jose Museum of Modern Art. This place used to be free, remember? But now there’s a fee. He showed up about ten minutes late and made it clear after viewing each installment that he didn’t like the show, a Contemporary Japanese Art compendium. He pronounced it trivial. Trace then talked about his paintings and murals, but since I’d never seen them, I couldn’t imagine what they looked like.
“He waxed on about his achievements with color and canvas, but I didn’t listen too closely. I just didn’t care. And I didn’t care for his black mock turtleneck, either.”
Candice and Christie both make the same grimacing face.
“He was pretentious and arrogant and full of his own artistic greatness. I didn’t realize that most ‘artist’ types go to see other art not be inspired by it, but to criticize it. He was real snippy, and I didn’t like so much negativity spewed at me as I enjoyed what I thought were pretty cool paintings.”
“Did someone who completely didn’t know you set you up?” inquired Mary.
I laugh and accidentally spit a minuscule smidge of cheese on the table.
“I started to ask non-artsy questions to see if maybe there was anything out there he didn’t despise. It turned out he had a small child in school, but the conversation revolved around her artistic abilities and creativity. I was more interested in hearing about her art rather than her egocentric daddy’s work.
“As we walked through the rest of the exhibit I snuck a few sideways peeks at him, and just couldn’t see what I saw in his photo. He probably looks in the mirror daily and sees a legend in his own mind. When we reached the end I politely extended my hand to shake and say good night.
“‘What, no coffee or tea?’ he questioned.
“It was time to bring the hammer down. I actually had to point out we just spent a half hour walking together and he never bothered to ask me one question about myself. He said he never noticed.”
Last night at dinner, a group of us were sharing dating stories. I was out with my girls, a band of determined women who had witnessed my past three relationships, yet still opted to hang with me. They were all equally remarkable, and at the present time, equally single. I was paying close attention, anticipating hearing a fresh spin on dating from a fresh batch of their dates. You can bet donuts to dollars, broads gathered with alcohol present always talk about men. I’d known Mary since high school. We moved to San Jose around the same time, but for dissimilar motivations. Christie and Candice entered my life a few years back when we worked together, and Sandra was my roommate during that same period.
The five of our lives intertwined, with me being the center hub for all the spokes. We all felt successful in our careers, loved our families, and even shared the same hair colorist, the fabulous Mindy O’Toole. Our personalities differed, but a main goal was ultimately communal—to find and keep the perfect man. I left the table for a bit to wash my hands before the food arrived. This was a New Year’s resolution I made circa 1991, and I was definitely not missing a beat with it now that I was active at the meet and greet with guys. I didn’t like dirty boys, so I didn’t want to be a dirty girl. And if any of my dates just so happened to recall this attribute to their mother while they just so happened to be talking about our first date, I was sure to win her over. I was delightfully chowing down on a huge mushroom burger (with extra cheddar!) when the woman next to me began her rant about her latest date. Time to listen up since I was secretly planning to take mental notes of all dates mentioned.
“I had the date from hell last night,” declared Mary. Stop right there. That statement just never rings true for me. He’s just a guy, after all. Dating isn’t tooth extraction or changing grandma’s underwear. How bad could it be?
“He was so late. I was so mad and I so didn’t want to go once he finally showed up. Can you believe him? We said six. I know we said six, and he rolled up nearly at seven. I should have known not to go out with him. He always came off like such a ***.”
“Yeah,” Sandra pipes in. “The guy I was supposed to meet at the Los Gatos Bar and Grill was sitting at the bar when I arrived last Friday night, hitting on other women. I stood by the door and just watched him make a complete ass out of himself. I didn’t know if I should step in and announce I had arrived, or just leave to see what was going on across the street at Mountain Charlies.”
Forget about notes! It quickly escalated into a competition to see who had the worst date story. They were vying to win, like a parlor game for singles. Candice and Christie had their stories, too. All run of-the-mill, “guys suck,” sort of tales. I figured this might not be the best time to announce that I had just recently embarked on a new lifestyle of blind dating. I was feeling positive about my choice, but while listening to these women bemoan their lack of luck, I was convinced I held the secret decoder ring that unlocks the behemoth dating mystery.
My telephone rang, and it was my father’s number. I answered, and the first thing he said was, “Don’t forget to tell your car guy tonight about your second place finish in the Pinewood Derby when you were a Scout. They don’t make ’em like you anymore, honey.”
Rod the mechanic was late for our “let’s just kick down a beer and bullshit” date. Those were his exact words during our brief, introductory phone call. However, I was still planning to move forward because I had heard from our mutual friend who’d given him my number that he embodied all ten aspects of “The List,” and that he was Brad Pitt cute. Our go-between was sort of correct, but Rod had a dirty appearance. He looked clean, but grungy. He’d most likely showered, but was wearing men’s Red Kap indigo blue work jeans. Now, I know my blue-collar uniforms, and, in fact, am a fan of coveralls and all things Carhartt. But something about wearing work pants to a first meeting in public looked like he either thought he should dress the part, or maybe he just lived in denim and cargo pants. Or maybe he was just clean, but grungy.
I was there on time, so I had some moments to fluff my hair in the toilet stall and practice sauntering around the room just like I watched Ava Gardner do the night before in The Barefoot Contessa. Yep, the early bird sure does obtain the worm!
“Chicks just don’t know *** about cars,” he grunted about ten minutes into our fifteen-minute-late linkage, he being the late-comer. Whoa, a double red flag in one sentence! “Chicks” and he’s a potty mouth on the first date. Let’s make it a triple red flag for his blatantly sexist-generalized statement, too. !
“I have to disagree,” I responded. “I think most women know how to refill gas, anti-freeze, and oil.” He scoffed, so I had to clarify by saying that I wasn’t talking about changing the oil, just topping it off. “And I’m sure most can put air in the tires, adjust the mirrors, even hang air fresheners on the rear-view mirror, and all of them have probably seen a TV show teaching them how to get out of a trunk if abducted and locked in.” Take that, jerk-boy.
Apparently that wasn’t what Gear Head was talking about. He wanted meat, so I threw him a chop.
“My absolute favorite muscle car is the 1966 Dodge Charger. It’s not exactly pretty, but it’s effective. And it provided one hell of a chase for Steve McQueen’s ’66 Mustang Fastback in Bullitt. Chargers are equipped with Hemi engines and can go from zero to sixty mph in just six-point-oh seconds, but I’m sure you knew that.”
I had Rod’s attention so I ran with it, plus I noticed a workmate just accidentally sitting a few tables away, so I found myself projecting now that I was on stage.
“The Charger was introduced on New Year’s Day 1966 and was based on the Coronet, but with a fastback roofline. One difference was it had retractable headlights, giving the car a sporty look.”
I told Rod my three favorite things about the Charger was the name spelled in block letters across the full length of the back tail light, the rear bucket seats that folded forward individually, and the instrument panel with four large, round pods directly in front of the driver. I even busted out the word tachometer, but he only gave me a non-smile, a sort of cocked-head glare while he replied, “Screw that!”
This guy might have had a set of tools, but he was clearly not the sharpest one in the toolbox. In a gesture of defiance for all “chicks” out there, I picked up my half-empty glass of St. Pauli Girl, slugged it down, slammed it on the table, smiled, and summoned up a belch (it was a bit more ladylike than I wanted at the moment, but we do what we can). And with that, I was out of there.
“I guess I crashed, but I didn’t exactly burn,” I reported back to dad.
“I don’t know, Liz. I think things might have gone differently if you worked it into the conversation that the secret of your Scout derby trophy was your trick of only three wheels touching the track. Not many girls know there is less friction with three wheels rolling, rather than four.”
My first date! I was ready to embark fearlessly on my new journey, so we set a place and time, and I was going to go through with it. I lingered while dressing and decided that shaving my legs would make me feel more attractive and confident, even though it was truly unnecessary since the pants were staying on. I labored over what to wear, and felt I would rock a safe V-neck grey zip up fleece and jeans. I wanted to look casual and luscious at the same time.
I found myself frozen, just staring in the mirror. Okay, this is it. I had moved on from the fiancé. I had dodged a bullet and knew it, but couldn’t help viewing my reflection from a totally funky mental space. What if I ran into my former love? What would I say? Was I in fact ready to go on a date with another man? If my first victim fell for me, I could kick my big plan to the curb and just enjoy my new man. I was gearing up to breeze into the bar and make this guy cuckoo for coco puffs.
Mead was a paper products engineer. Yeah, like loose leaf, three-hole punch paper. He had a great photo, was doing interesting things with his time, but was one of those typical Silicon Valley cats that seemed too good to be true. I remember studying the photo he e-mailed to me and trying to picture him in my life. He looked like someone who could enjoy my friends, would eat my cooking, and generally be able to hang out in a cemetery without making cracks about Night of the Living Dead.
We had one of those forever and a day e-mail volleys. He would write long essays about his bike rides and his projects at work, and I would wonder when we were going to meet already. I didn’t want him to fade away since he seemed to be a strong first candidate.
Mead, who I’d secretly nicknamed “paperboy,” met me at the V Bar, a very up to the moment lounge on the third floor of the Hotel Valencia on trendy Santana Row. It was the kind of 1970’s place seen in movies like Boogie Nights where long strands of silver beads need to be jostled to enter the area near the leather banquettes.
We were meeting for a drink, and I didn’t recognize him walking in because he was much shorter than his photo led on. His picture portrayed a Saudi prince with stature, but he was more of a polo player sans mallet.
“You don’t look like a mortician,” he said. I smiled the smile I smile every time I heard this observation, as if it was a compliment.
The conversation was overall stiff and tiresome, which I’m sure was quite akin to his personality. He would make a statement and then make a deliberate pause, which in turn made me uniformly bleat out a response. He would ruminate over what I said, before moving on to his next statement. It wasn’t a getting-to-know-you sort of banter, but more of an exchange of sentences. I knew after five minutes that this was the first and last date with Mead. He seemed alright, but I just wasn’t captivated.
I felt let down as I sat and stared at his alligator shoes. I had practiced casual hair flips and winsome or charming facial expressions in the mirror for days. And I was going to wow this paper products engineer with the fact my father had an original Pee Chee folder from 1943 when they were first released. My dad lived a short distance from the Western Tablet and Stationery Company in Kalamazoo, Michigan, which manufactured the Pee Chee. The peach colored folder depicts kids hanging out at a malt shop, and has a military Jeep on it. It’s a family heirloom.
I never got to share too much since Mead seemed to have an invisible list of sentences to read from. He did have an unpredictable moment when I thought he might snap. He was drinking a wine spritzer (girlie drink—red flag!) when his jacket sleeve knocked the glass over. He immediately flushed with anger and made a quick, awkward arm gesture in frustration. He was clearly uptight about losing the slightest bit of control, and I think he would have kicked a dog at that moment if he had the chance.
Mead walked me downstairs, I promptly said good night, and then beat it directly to my former roommate, Candice’s home. I had to dish all about my first date, and I needed to share with someone that I already feared Mead was an indication of how this might all turn out for me.