All Men Are Cremated Equal

We finally connected late Friday afternoon. He was reading Tractor-Trailer Trucker: A Powerful Truck Book, by Joyce Slayton Mitchell, yet wanted to meet at Tinker’s Dam on Sunday for their all-out barbecue. I was seldom caught off guard by some of the places my dates asked to

meet. Santana Row was by far the most common choice; rarely did one of my numbered suitors throw me for a loop.

Here was a trucker with a husky phone voice who’d already let one subtle homophobic comment slip into our phone conversation, yet our rendezvous place was Tinker’s Dam. This Santa Clara hot spot was very active on weekend evenings. “T.D.’s,” as the regulars call it, was a gay bar known for strong drinks, strong men, and take-off-your-shirt dancing. There was also a popular free barbecue on Sundays, and that was what we (allegedly) were headed there for.

Rhodes hugged me in the parking lot and said he’d been at T.D.’s for a fundraiser the week prior, and loved the attitude of the place. Our day there was full of draft beer, and man meat in mesh shirts. I was eyed a few times by patrons trying to size up whether this clod was my date, or I was his “lavender cover.” Well, it was flattering that they bothered to take the time to evaluate our situation.

I heard a voice I recognized and saw that my loyal housemates had filled a table in the corner, downing their second or third pitcher of beer. They waved and played up the fact they had no idea I was going to be there, or who I was with. Rhodes waved back, and had no suspicions that my posse was purposely in the room to check him out.

A very good-looking Mexican guy passed us. Rhodes asked if I thought he was Norteno.

“Because he’s wearing red?” I guessed.

Rhodes nodded his head while he swigged his lemony drink. East San Jose had a division among its Mexican-American citizens for years. Nortenos are native-born Chicanos from the area, who proudly wear red, whereas the recent immigrants from the south dress in blue. The colors represent identity and affiliation. But back to my date…

In short order it became clear to me that Rhodes was testing the waters regarding his own sexuality. He loved to talk about Hollywood stars and their hairstyles, but flirted with me. He would listen intently to what I was talking about, but then his gaze would often drift over to some good-looking stud at a nearby table. He asked lots of questions about my career choice and seemed interested in it, but I just had a feeling we were having a date at T.D.’s because he wanted a reason to be there.

And then I caught the look. Two very attractive men were saddled up to the bar, and when one rose to pull his wallet from his back pocket of his very tight Levi’s, Rhodes watched with far more interest than necessary. I sat with Rhodes as we finished up our meal, and then I excused myself while he worked a toothpick though his pork-infested choppers.              

                      I maneuvered over to my housemates as soon as I said goodbye. They looked confused, and wanted to know if he was a blind date, or if I was his “*** hag” for the day.

Owen sent me a note that made it obvious he was a no-nonsense guy. It said he had been given my contact information by someone who knew me, and our go-between was a former boss of mine. Even though that particular boss had canned me, I continued reading. Owen felt he owed it to his wallet to propose an “informative first date” that would cost no money. He requested “a public meeting where we could just sit and evaluate the situation,” and asked me to choose a comfortable location not more than five miles from his home.

Oh, brother! I chose the smaller of the two pyramids in the garden outside the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum and Planetarium. If I got to pick, then I was going to be true to my creative self and let my freak flag fly.

I pulled up on time, and there was my date, sitting patiently, starring at the pyramid. He had a nice showing of brown hair. He also had quite a charming, full-toothed smile when he realized that the weirdo he was expecting looked quite normal. Little did Owen know...

I have found that my looks have confused men into thinking I have a certain personality. Many think I’m easy or maybe into being glamorous, and some are quite put off when they discover the “me” they get to know is full of goofy facts, frequently breaks into wild dance

moves for no apparent reason, and has a penchant for the morbid, and the utterly nerdy. I just cannot be bothered with others’ ideas of normalcy. This could be one explanation of my singlehood, but highly doubtful.

Before Owen arrived at the pyramid, he’d picked up his daughter from Montessori school. He asked if I was familiar with that method of teaching. I told him that not only had I read Maria Montessori’s work, but that I hoped my future little person would attend one of

those schools.

“I love that it encourages independent playing and learning and interaction among children of different age groups,” he said. “Teachers stroke backs and read stories to some, while other children, preferring to read by themselves, sit quietly with a book in their laps. I really feel the program is about helping children reach their full potential in every area of life.”

We were in perfect agreement with our thoughts, and it was right about then that he inched closer to me, providing me with a heady whiff of his sour breath. I must have shown that I was taken aback by it, because he quickly shifted so that he wasn’t facing me any longer. We’d had such a natural flow to our conversation, but now he was being more careful of what words he used and how much breath he used to say them.

I was at a crossroads. Did I ignore his stench and carry on, or did I lightly tell him that I didn’t care about his rotten mouth, and that he shouldn’t either? It didn’t bother me, but that’s my easy going attitude toward biological functions. Not everyone shared such humility. But we’re human, and that’s the long and short of it. We are all connected.

I decided that discretion was the more ladylike part of valor, and let him take the conversation and his body language in whichever direction suited him. Apparently the pressure was too much because he suddenly remembered that he had his daughter’s book bag in his car and needed urgently to return it to her. I wasn’t buying it and he knew it, but I politely waved goodbye and knew that his wussy confidence level would prevent me from ever hearing from him again.

After he left, I sat and stared at the pyramid before me. What a cool place to meet, and how great for me that I had the whole area to myself. I should have gotten up and twirled around. Instead, I thought about the fact that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime, and when you figure out which it is, you know exactly what to do.

I pondered that for a moment, then decided I was going to swing by a neighboring bar and watch the Lennox Lewis Pay-Per-View fight.

A few housemates were up when I walked into the blue mansion and they were all over me like acne on a prepubescent boy. I told them I learned something that night.

“I highly recommend an ‘eating with your hands’ first date. It’s a good test to see if your date finds it necessary to wash their hands before touching food, and it also works well to weed out people who are closed to different cultural experiences. Moroccan restaurants also work well on this score.”

Mangus needs to shower and prepare for a drive up to Stanford. A heart donation will be taking place in about two hours and he is one of the doctors on the team. He doesn’t talk much about his procedures, but we all know he is real proud of his work and hopes to stay in America to continue his career.

Scotty says he has an online poker tournament starting in about five minutes, so he’s “gonna grab a Miller from the fridge and change into his lucky socks.”

Sheila says she has nowhere to go and nothing to do, so how about a few date stories so she can live vicariously through a single pal? I really love her support. She always has a sincere smile for me when she sees me coming or going, and she listens to my dating woes with a big

heart. She’s on my side, and it feels great.

“Two nights back I stopped into Eulipia on South First to have dinner with Phil. I’ve had a drink with a friend there before, but never had the chance to order food. Phil, the pastry chef, knew Eduardo, Eulipia’s dinner chef, and wanted to sample his new cuisine. Fun, I thought. I loved food, so what a great evening I’d have hanging out with a professional foodie.”

I tell her that I adore South First Street. This was the street where my grandmother’s house once stood. “Casa Grande” was on the corner of South First and Alma, a landmark that sat on the roadway better known as “Blood Alley” by Seventies San Josers.

“You’re from Philly so you don’t know this, but there used to be a long section of Highway 101 between San Jose and Morgan Hill called Old Monterey Road. It was a country lane lined with fruit stands. The road saw many, many traffic fatalities and nearly 750 injuries, mostly from cars carrying fruit buyers from the local stands.”

I bet Chapel of the Flowers Funeral Home over on Second Avenue did a killing in those days!

“Phil knew the road’s history, and remembered the house. He said he heard it had an elevator, and I had to laugh since I was asked that a lot. It’s pretty cool to actually be able to say it was grandma’s house.”

Sheila asks tons of questions, seeing she owns a “mansion” herself. Then it’s back to Phil.

“He grew up in the area and I loved his excitement about it. He told me about childhood day trips to places such as Happy Hollow Baby Zoo, and the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, places I remembered from my own experiences as a child.”

Sheila moves closer to me on the window seat. She pulls her leg up to her chest and I can see her green toenail polish. She always wears low-slung, Middle Eastern skirts, and looks either ready to go out dancing, or lounge in a basement full of pillows. She said she wanted to hear about my family background some time since she didn’t know I lived in San Jose as a kid. I smiled, grateful to have her in my life.

“The conversation with Phil came to a natural impasse, and I took the lead, to ask him all about his tasty career choice. I’d even thought about what I’d ask before we met because, knowing me, I’d blurt out some stupid question about who designed the chef hat, and why is it so darned tall?”

Sheila laughs with a big snort at the end.

He told me that pastry had started out as a hobby, but then became his career. He said, “I try and get an inside feel for what’s happening in our local pastry world, so I go out and see what wines and cordials customers pair their desserts with. I studied at l’Ecole de la Pâtisserie Lenôtre in France, and they taught us to always search for the latest flavor combination, but to respect the French tradition of creating pastries.”

He was currently writing a pastry cookbook that will demonstrate how easy it is to make your favorite desserts at home. Bûche de Noël au Chocolat is considered quite elaborate, but it can be done well by the average person if they know the tricks.

“I really liked this guy. He was masterful, yet humble. He worked with food, but wasn’t gluttonous. He knew the head chef of the restaurant, but wasn’t show-offy about it.”

Please let nothing go wrong, I whispered inside my head. Please let this guy be as fabulous as he seems, so we can advance to the next date, and just maybe I can get off this first-date rollercoaster which seems to get derailed every time.

“No sooner did I feel that I had this one baked to perfection, when a woman walked up to the table and started screaming at him. Nope, it wasn’t a perturbed consumer of a pastry by Phil, but the best friend of his wife! My mouth dropped.

“I thought back over our very long phone conversations, and there had been nothing, nothing at all to have led me to believe he wasn’t single. I made it clear to her—and Phil!—that was this was our first and last date, and I was outta there faster than it takes a fat kid to hork a Ho-Ho.”

Sheila laughed with the snort again, and then her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know if I’m more pissed off that he tried to cheat with you, or that someone who seemed nearly perfect was way too good to be true.”

We hugged for a long time. She was very sweet for such a loud broad.

A cutie named Josh phoned and wanted to connect. We were set up through the son of a family I helped arrange services for. His pal, Ben’s mother had just passed, so Ben came to the funeral home several times to firm up the details. We were able to talk and joke, and ultimately lament about dating in the Bay Area. He thought Josh was the man for me. I thought that was a pretty cool way to meet.

Our phone conversation was a long one. Josh had question after question, and I happily answered everything he wanted to know. His final question was one I didn’t hear too often. He wanted to know if I could help him with a creative way to disperse his ashes. He said he was serious and wanted to get something down in writing. We perused some options.

I share for as little as $1000, a Georgia firm will mix his ashes with concrete and cast him into an artificial reef to create habitat for endangered ocean species. The Marvel Comics editor who helped create Captain America wanted his ashes mixed with ink and printed into a comic book after his death. His wife followed his wishes, and his remains were printed into a special edition poster of ‘Squadron Supreme’ in 1996. And the Frisbee creator asked his family members to cast his ashes into a series of limited edition discs.

When I walked through the door of Gojo Ethiopian Restaurant I felt beautiful. You know what I mean, Sandra? It was one of those spring evenings when your hair falls just right and you sort of glide on air.

Josh, the humor writer, greeted me with a warm hug and commented that I was “tons more pretty” than Ben had led on. I blushed appropriately and gave him a much-practiced, yet-subtle flip of my right-falling hair. He motioned for me to pull up some wicker across from him and settle in.

Drinks were ordered, and we were washed and ready to eat with our hands. I spied his copy of The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand, on the ledge by our table. He looked sheepishly at me after surveying our first course, and confessed that he’d read about this restaurant online but had never eaten here. Rock on! I was always happy to have an opportunity to shine, and when a small first course arrived, I started my instruction.

“Pinch your index finger and thumb together, like you’re picking something up. Now move your hand so that your fingers and thumb are shaped around the food, and use this Ethiopian bread as a makeshift utensil. Place your thumb behind the food, lean your head forward, and put it in your mouth like this.”

He did better than average. I joked that it didn’t quite work with soup; he didn’t get it. I tore into my plate of doro wot, one of the most popular Ethiopian dishes. I love the tender chicken, hard-boiled egg and the soft, spongy bread. I told him that bread was called “injera,” just in case he ever wanted to throw that out and impress some future date he might bring to Gojo. He didn’t smile or laugh at that, either.

I ordered my second beer and smiled happily at my surroundings. I was on a date with a cute guy, and sitting in a restaurant a mere half mile down West San Carlos Street where I used to live in a fabulous corner loft with the former fiancé. I was away from him and his dysfunctional theater, sipping a smooth Kidus Giorgis bira. And I was okay and happy in my life, but I did wish my date would humor me a little bit more.

I studied Josh while he finished up his phone call. He looked virile and handsome in his loose-fitting caftan. He was the kind of guy that my friends would emphatically pronounce “hot” when they met him. Sure, hot, but just not funny.

He seemed to appreciate me and my knowledge of non-fork etiquette, and he clearly was having a fine time, but there wasn’t a connection on my end. What was bugging me was I couldn’t get a smile from him.

“Damit!” I yelled into the phone after Mary answered post-date.

 “Josh could have been a serious candidate for the coveted second go-round. Why did he have to be so polite and unentertained by me? Or was it just my brand of humor? After all, everything is funny as long as it is happening to somebody else.”

She wanted to know what I said.

“I was cracking a few harmless jokes just to see if I could make him comfortable, but I really think it was just his humorless personality. We were eating with our hands, for God’s sake, by his choice. He didn’t laugh once. In fact, he didn’t even smile when the hard-boiled egg dropped out of his injera and almost rolled out the front door.”

Finally! After twenty dates, I was finally having a date outside, to go biking in San Francisco. I guessed (to myself and all my friends) that this might be Tripper’s “first date” test. He was way into the sport of biking and it made sense that he would want to meet biking ladies,

which I wasn’t, but I didn’t mind donning spandex if I happened to be at the right poundage.

He was wearing a bright red biking top made of some fabric with special wicking designed to keep the wearer dry, plus he was sporting a bright red, streamlined, aerodynamic helmet. Truth be told, he looked like a super dork, but I was willing to learn more about him. We chatted briefly, then cycled off towards the Embarcadero and down Bay Street to Fort Mason, an old armory on the San Francisco waterfront. From there we took a bike path that traversed a nice little park that dumped us out near the Marina Green.

We soon passed the Palace of Fine Arts building, a beautiful remnant of the Panama Pacific International Exposition of 1915. If you’ve ever seen the Alfred Hitchcock film, Vertigo, it’s the museum where Jimmy Stewart stalks Kim Novak while she sits and stares at the painting of Carlotta Valdes.

The sun was shining brightly. I was feeling very vibrant to be riding past all this cool San Francisco history on my bike. And then the Golden Gate Bridge loomed before us. I begged like a little kid to cross over it on our bikes, and Tripper, the digital effects guy, finally acquiesced, although he didn’t see the big deal I was making over it.

“Probably because it’s only like the most significant landmark in California, besides the La Brea Tar Pits,” I said to my lanky, bright-red stop-sign of a date, which was the longest sentence uttered on this date thus far.

As we crossed the bridge, other cyclists twenty feet ahead of me were suddenly eaten by the fog while the wind was gusting so hard I was having trouble controlling my bike. I rammed into the guardrail a few times, but I didn’t care. I was grinning like a moron and loving every minute of it. I was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on my bike.

Hey everybody! Look at me!

Once safely on the north side, Tripper was quite pleased that I was quite pleased. My smile was so contagious that a group of Asian tourists asked me to pose in a photo with them taken by a sign that read “Golden Gate Bridge.”

Riding back across the bridge, the wind off the Pacific was incredible. It whipped us around at possibly thirty miles per hour. My smile was still going strong, and it continued past all the gorgeous scenery and even into the cool bar we went to in the Sunset District.

I really liked Tripper’s city and his lifestyle. But he looked goofy in his spandex, and didn’t even bother removing his bike helmet as we enjoyed our après-bike Shiner Bock beer.

I watched him as I waited in line for the bathroom and felt sort of embarrassed to rejoin him at our table, even though I was still on my biking high. My smile disappeared, however, when he announced that we could get up in the morning and ride south to Lake Merced. I couldn’t believe he actually thought I was going to stay the night with him, and he couldn’t believe that I actually wasn’t.

Two weeks had gone by and I had racked up an unimpressive slew of meetings. My dad wanted to hear about my progress but I wasn’t sure if he’d either enjoy my sagas, or pity his single daughter. I had shared some of my more mild dates with him, and I knew he was patiently waiting for me to call him up one day with a success story of an actual second date. He wanted to know if I had a nice time with that nice accountant I was off to meet the other evening.

“Bill was boring, just like every other Bill I’ve ever dated. Just boring and simple, and I’m not being harsh. We were sitting in yet another Santana Row eatery, where he was telling me that he loved television and would come home to it every night after work. He’d look at his dating profiles and see no responses, then retreat to his plush recliner, where he would then lower himself complacently into his abyss of an evening by clicking the remote. He had zero enthusiasm about it and knew that it was pathetic that he was even telling me about it, much less living it.

“Nothing interested him, nothing moved him, and nothing did much of anything for him. So how could I expect this guy to carry a relationship, or even an engaging conversation? So I thought I’d take the ball into my court with Bill and tell a story of my relationship with television. You know, the Mary Tyler Moore, story?”

He knew it, alright. I was a full-time ballroom dancer back in 1992-93, when my dance partner (and boyfriend) suddenly decided to move to New York and get his Ph.D. in philosophy. I was heartbroken and had to quit my dancing gig because I didn’t have another partner. Right away I started volunteering in the news department at KBOO-FM, and in short order I became a news anchor. Despite the great new job, I was still so crushed over my break-up that I would chain-smoke cigarettes and stay up late, pondering why he left, and how crappy I felt over it.

Late one evening I happened to watch The Mary Tyler Moore Show on Nick at Nite, and I felt a gleam of hope. Mary worked in a news department, just like me. The opening credits showed her walking in the park, washing her car, shopping at the grocery store, and finally tossing her hat up into the air joyously because she was going to make it after all. I started to live for eleven PM to watch Mary. She was able to enjoy home-cooked meals for herself, shake her head at man-crazy Rhoda, and basically just be okay alone. She was inspiring and comforting, and she made me feel that I would be okay after all, too. For about a month I didn’t miss an episode, and then one day I said goodbye to her. I even sent her a letter to tell her that she helped me get over my heartbreak, and I thanked her sincerely. I never heard back, but can you really blame her?

“Bill just looked at me and said he’d never seen the show. Can you say stick in the mud? Bill was duller than watching paint dry.”

“Well, Liz...” I can hear the wind up in my father’s voice. He is ready to deliver one of his famous insights, and he never fails in his timing.

“I guess if you read a lot of books, you’re considered well-read. But if you watch a lot of TV, you’re not considered well-viewed.”

The Caravan. No windows. I understand why people like that in a bar, but it wasn’t a place for me, primarily because it smelled like puke, but also because there were always way too many people drinking themselves into oblivion at all hours of the day and night, and I tend to find that pretty depressing. However, if you’re looking for a true dive bar, look no further.

We’ve all had one of these: the Angry Dater. Life has been quite unfair to this man and he is out to avenge his wronged-ness on all future dates. He feels that women have been jerks to him, and Connor had a lot to tell me about just how rude women are. He also said that he had too many pet peeves about women in general to mention in one date. Well, I thought to myself, you’d better talk fast, pal, because this is your first and last chance for my attention.

“I can’t stand women who would prefer to spray public toilets with their urine than sit their precious thighs on the seat. If you go into a restroom, and the seat isn’t clean looking, just sit your ass down. Your pee will go where it’s supposed to, and the seat will stay dry.”

I mulled this over in my head and couldn’t figure out what he was bitching about since women tend to use those paper seat covers in public restrooms, anyway. And exactly why was he sharing this with me?

“And another thing I hate about women is when they don’t thank me for things I pay for, like they just expect it. I hate when a woman puts her hand in my potato chip bag. Get your own damn chips, I want to yell at her. And then what about girls who wear sandals that are too small, and their feet spill over the top of them?”

He quickly glanced down to survey my piggies, which were neatly encased in a properly fitting boot. I had to smile as I thought about the monstrous bunion I had on my left foot. The right one had been removed a few years back, but I needed to find a stable relationship before I could be on crutches for six to eight weeks. Crutching and blind dating don’t mix; my black boots are slick on the bottom!

He continued his rant by saying he’d actually punch some walls after some dates to vent his frustration. I remarked that I wasn’t sure that punching walls was the best, and I tried to help with my de-stresser strategy by suggesting he consider throwing rocks at trees, or buying a box of dishes from Goodwill and smashing them inside his garage.

“Sometimes I drive to the middle of nowhere and scream really loud. I also find thrashing around with my rockin’ dance moves helps, creatively channeling all my negative energy—with the blinds down and curtains drawn.”

Now he wanted to know my issues with guys. What was it that I really hated most? I told him that poor grammar and spelling are my pet peeves. He wasn’t satisfied with that. So I told him that I can’t stand angry daters.

I was talking with Tim who approached me a few minutes earlier. I was still at Katie Bloom’s, and he saw me there with my "boyfriend," and wanted to know where he went. I told Tim that my "boyfriend" was a blind date. I worked through the question and answer portion that followed that comment, and now we were on to what I do for a living.

“You don’t look like a mortician,” he said. I smiled the smile I smile every time I hear this observation.

Tim follows that up with, "Did you know a sheriff’s dispatcher sounds the same when calling a funeral home about a death call that he does calling a tow truck driver about a flat tire? Not everything is so sacred anymore. Death is a weird career choice.’"

I retort: "Well I wanted to be a trapeze artist, but ended up in a mortuary. And I have no regrets being a mortician; some of my greatest moments are those shared with the dead.’”

Tim tells me he was raised in a funeral home and sometimes he was sent downstairs to the basement to bring supper to dad. That would really freak him out to interrupt his father, hard at work repairing a body. He said that one time he walked in and a head was sitting on the table next to the body. He was still freaked over it.

His first job was helping dress the bodies with his older brother. They were just kids and all they could think about was if they’d hurry up, supper won’t be cold. Why did that room always remind him of supper, he asked me as he pondered over his Ruby Ale?

It was a rainy Saturday evening and I had worked all day at the cemetery, but was able to gather the energy to slip into my date outfit for yet another adventure for a guy reading The DaVinci Code. This guy was a guy’s guy, someone who I guessed had a life-size Colin Farrell poster taped to the inside of his closet.

He was in the bar a full hour before I arrived, he said, because he’d heard that “hot

women” hung out there and got “liquored up.” Loser!

“When Irish Americans take to the streets on St. Patrick’s Day to celebrate their heritage,” he rambled on to all who would listen, “all the newspapers portray them in cartoons as drunk, violent monkeys.

What a bunch of bull crap!”

He’d begun drinking Car Bombs before I arrived. A Car Bomb is half a pint of Guinness with a shot glass of Irish Whiskey or Irish Cream dropped into it; one then chugs the pint. Not really the behavior of someone looking to meet his soul mate, now, is it?

He made it known to all that he was a devout Irish Catholic and heedlessly began to bash the Protestant faith. Begorrah, this guywouldn’t let up! I kept thinking of recent headlines such as “Drunken fool disrupts Boston Marathon,” and “Defrocked Irish priest strikes

again.”

Then he switched to Black and Tans. At least he had good taste in beer.

I kept thinking, If a drunk man speaks in the forest and there is no woman to hear him, is he still a jerk?

He was now yelling at some poor guy standing near him.

“Why the hell did that redhead in here leave? I didn’t even get a good look.”

Blah, blah, blah…who cares, you stupid ass? I was out the door as soon as he stumbled off to the can.

Finbar pulled a classic “show and throw up;” the more he drank, the more he spewed. The whole unreal experience reminded me of a joke: a snake slithers into a bar and the bartender says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t serve you.”

“Why not?” asks the snake.  

The bartender then says, “Because you can’t hold your liquor.”

I like to refer to Skip as the "triple date": it was me, him, and his cell phone. Look, we all have cell phones. I'm in a profession where I am always on call or at least I need to be reachable, so I understand it and accept it. My beef was that he was checking the caller ID each time the phone rang, and had no issue picking it up to talk even when it was just a social call. These conversations weren't prefaced with "Oh, sorry, I really need to take this one." It was, "Hey, dude! 'Sup?" every time to whomever was calling.

And then Silicon Valley babble, that would go  a little something like this:

"Yeah, we reviewed his skill set, looked at the variables, and decided to link our people. He lives in the five and dime but can BART it down and  sit in the pod. He just might be the curry we need since we'll back forty production soon, and the new nomenclature is on the critical path. I don't want to sunset that project and would like to throw it over the wall soon. So let's see if we can get him into the loop and pencil him in since Doug was officially uninstalled last week. Let's discuss this later off line."

Even the woman next to us turned around and glared at him. And, yeah, who can blame her? Did Skip really have no clue how obnoxious it was to those around him, and that his huge vocab of start-up lingo wasn't that riveting? Just writing that conversation was annoying! But that was how homo Siliconis spoke during the dot com boom in San Jose, self-proclaimed "Capital of Silicon Valley," and high-tech Mecca.

Let me break it down for the rest of the country: "Five and dime" refers to area code 510, which covers the east San Francisco Bay Area. This guy can ride the B.A.R.T. (Bay Area Rapid Transit) train, and sit in the "pod," or  sea of cubicles. "Curry" would be the spice or new person added to the mix. Something is "back fortied" when it's temporarily set aside, and a project is on the "critical path" when it absolutely needs to be completed. Ideas are "sunseted" when they are finished. You "throw it over the wall" to have the other departments take a look. And poor Doug was fired or laid off.

Skip's self-important ring tone went off again and I gave him a look that clearly said I was losing my patience. He decided that phone call number four was more important than my blind date #13, so I got up and waved buh-bye. He placed the phone on his shoulder and said, "Hold on. Just hang for a few minutes."

Let's spin it this way: the buzzword is "no."

Dating fatigue had officially set in. It was New Year’s Day, and the party I’d attended the night before at the Blue Pheasant was seriously lugubrious. It felt sad walking into the place and seeing a multitude of men and women who looked like this was their last chance to end the year accompanied. It was a stark reminder that I was really one of them, on some level. But, hopefully, I was still safe from appearing so.

Reed called and wanted to see a movie. I was really just fine with that, especially on a frizzling, drizzling New Year’s Day. He informed me that he’d be in a bright orange parka and that I couldn’t miss him. He was sure right about that! I was a little disappointed that he wasn’t as cute as his photo, which looked like a black-and-white snapshot of Heath Ledger.

We each bought our own ticket (red flag!) for The Last Samurai, and he graciously let me choose the seats. I picked a row towards the back so I could run out if I received a cell call from someone I’d rather be in the dark with.

Let me back up here for a minute. Yes, not paying for my movie ticket was a red flag. Scarlet. Crimson! After all, he was the one who asked to see me, picked the venue, and selected the film, so I believed it was his responsibility to shell out the nominal cost for the pleasure of my movie-viewing company. Forking over the dough for a matinee would have been the same price as one overpriced venti coffee drink he surely treated himself to several times a day.

On the way into the theater he said, “You don’t look like a mortician.” I smiled the smile I smiled every time I heard this observation.

This was not a film I would have gone to see on my own volition, but what a film! I was completely into it from the opening shot, and it was so engrossing a journey that it just didn’t matter who I was sharing a row, or a date, with. I was really digging the storyline and the hot action. I loved every scene with the lead character. He was masculine, spiritual, contemplative, and one hell of a fighter. (No, not Tom Cruise; I’m talking about the Japanese lead, Ken Watanabe.)

I was captivated by Katsumoto. He was gorgeous, powerful, intelligent, loyal, and a force to be reckoned with. And then it hit me. That’s who I was really looking for in my dating world. It was Katsumoto, except with a few more prayer candles with saints on them. But was there one as great and humble as he in Silicon Valley looking for me?

No sooner am I out the theater door I am speed dialing one of my gals.

“Well, a fresh year, which naturally defaults to a fresh dating record, right? Yet, the first of hopefully not many blind dates of 2004 was bleak. Apart from making me pay my way, Reed told me he spent all his free time hunting with his mutt, Chloe.”

Mary laughs and says she is so impressed how much I’m putting myself out there and willing to share drinks and meals with random strangers who I think look good on paper.

“That’s funny, Mary. I thought ‘looks good on paper’ meant the guy looked infallible due to a big bank account, a cash-producing job, and equity in a home or two. I just want a quality human who is a productive member of society, makes me laugh more than he makes me cry, and doesn’t lick his fingers while eating.”

Rusty built grain silos in the Central California Valley. He worked in the East Bay, but happily commuted ninety minutes one way to work because he could listen to his Harry Potter books on tape. He was really riveted by the second installment and spent about ten minutes of our date acting it out for me, voices and all. I do appreciate a story teller with a flair for the avant-garde, as long as he isn’t dramatically challenged or truly unfunny. Near the end he used his wine glass as a prop a few too many times for my taste, but overall he passed, if only marginally.

Rusty and I happened to be sitting at the center table of the King’s Head Pub & Restaurant in downtown Campbell enjoying a Kapsreiter Pilsner. This was a very cool place, and sometimes I stood on the stage here, singing with the band from my current group-home experience. I share with my family that I was an official fill-in member of the Apollo Creeds, a band whose lead singer’s style was reminiscent of Janis Joplin. The band was playing in our basement one night, and I picked up a tambourine and joined right in. During the next song I danced around the room with my finger castanets ringing like crazy. By the third, I was wailing into the microphone like nobody’s business. I was in!

I really enjoyed Rusty. He changed the conversation from Harry Potter to his matchbook collection. I leaned forward with great interest because this was just the type of nerdy stuff I savor.

“Is it me," I asked, "or have you noticed that not many restaurants give out matches like they did back in the day?"

He nodded and shrieks, "Totally! There used to be a garden of matches near the entrance of every dining establishment and you could snatch as many as you desired. I used to collect matches from everyplace I went."

I told him that even though smoking was banned from restaurants, I still wanted matches. I liked free stuff. He then asked if I’d like another ‘free’ drink. Clever, he was. With a straight face, Rusty ordered a Rusty Nail. He was killing me! He shared with me that his matchbook collection spanned forty years, and he loved the art on the packaging. I asked if he displayed them in a giant brandy snifter on his coffee table, and he told me that I was stuck in the Seventies. He professed the new method of matchbook display was to group them by subject and slip them into plastic sleeves in special binders, or in shadowboxes.

He said his parents’ joke was that he was ‘a twig on the matchbook branch of the family tree.’ His father and uncles had shopping bags full of matchbooks in their closets to prove that they were loony enough to be committed. I suddenly wanted to meet them.

I asked Rusty, "Aren’t they worried about the dangers of fire? Or spontaneous combustion?" And that’s where he zinged me with his close-cover-before-striking joke.

Rusty gave me some things to think about. He had an impressive job, a very interesting background, and definitely an upbeat personality, but his favorite books, movies, and philosophy all come from Harry Potter. He also quite frankly said that he had the maturity of a 12-year-old, and that his last girlfriend was somewhere in his junior high days. I had to pass. And did I mentiojn he came to the date dressed in character as a sorcerer?

I got in about three AM from a first call, which is shop talk for picking up a deceased loved one and bringing them into the care of the funeral home. I e-mailed Christie just before I turned off my light. I really wanted to know where my Clint Eastwood was, or maybe my rodeo king? Or maybe my Gulf War Veteran who was tough yet tender. Maybe someone who had a past, an understanding of the value of life, and someone who could take care of business? And could she answer this for me?

My pillows were fluffed and I was ready to drift off to dreamland, but I must have missed the ferryboat. I stayed in the same position for what seemed like an hour, contemplating the concept of time. I want more time. I am trapped by the active, intelligent person’s ongoing dilemma, which is the lack of time. Life simultaneously seems too precious to waste in front of the television, and too precious to let slip by without enjoying leisure time and purposeful contemplation.

I want time to reflect. I want time to nap. I want time to pursue and develop a great relationship with someone. I want time to explore my fascination with canned foods. I want time to visit my father and niece. I want time to bake cookies for a deserving guy, and learn how to cook a great steak. I want time to get in my Jeep, drive somewhere pretty, and snap a roll of pictures. I want so much time that I might, just might, find myself lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, so bored that I wish I could die, like I did once when I was seven.

I finally turned my head to see what time it was, and I was quite surprised to find 5:37 staring back at me from the digital display. I would have heard my alarm ring in twenty minutes, so I decided to spring the coup early and get in a smidge longer morning workout. It was power-lifting day of my regular exercise routine. Yes, I had an actual workout schedule—a list of all the exercises I’m planning for every day of the week.

I’d incorporated a simple plan that allowed me to view the day’s exercise and just do it. No need to track anything, or try

to come up with something beneficial at five or six in the morning. Every week the workouts changed to prevent my body becoming accustomed to a routine, hence I could always keep my muscles “in shock” like the pros say. And I always keep my excitement level high. Or as high as it can really be doing dead lifts to Abba with no one else in the gym.

I had been counting my reps on the Hammer Strength plate-loaded iso-lateral upper body machine (don’t I sound cool!) when I sensed a man standing near me. Exactly where did he come from? I swear I was the only one in the gym. He grunts something about noticing my form and says he can help correct it. I’m open to his suggestion and wait to see if this is merely a training tip or made up reason to chat me up.

Within mere moments he’s boldly chatting me up, and standing much too close as he “corrects my form.” He fills me in that he’s a former boxer, and he works out Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at the gym we’re currently at. And he loves red meat. A dinner invitation is up to bat in record time. Oh, and his name is Tony.

There’s a fine line at the gym of being flirty or being the Creepy Guy, and so far my big Italian gumbah fits into the innocent, mere flirt category. I quickly assess the situation, giving him gold stars for being built, outgoing, and having good annunciation. Time for some questions from the invisible list in my head, and we’re off with a bang.

He’s from the area, works out said days with his brother, and instinctively knows to mention the fact he thinks he forgot to lock the toolbox in his truck bed. I overlook the bonehead for the brawn in that sentence. He’s yummy!

Blind dating. Yeah, tell me about it. Not the most glamourous way to spend an evening. Some of my blind dates were so fascinated why I was with them on a blind date. And they had to let me know. Yes, I was willing to be set up on a blind date. Over and over again, truthfully. I decided not to tell whomever asked what number he was on a really short list of success. Instead, I helped break down the stereotype that blind dating is for those who cannot inspire or secure their own dates.

I would tell them my blind dating is meeting a special person who someone in your life thought you were special enough to meet. With that, they'd ask if I accepted the date with him because all my friends were married and I was feeling desperate.

First off, the whole ‘desperate girl in her thirties’ thing is not true, because women have choices. We have careers, can have children for years, can adopt, maybe don’t want kids or a family, or even a husband, and are generally too busy to obsess about it. No girl sits home waiting for him because she is desperate and in her thirties. We don't have to settle for just 'man,'so why not advertise what we wants and simply trust that he might be out there? I always thought it was brave that women out there accepted dates sight unseen. 

I was always glad when men were open to learn all the mystical wonders of my dating world. I sometimes got crazy and felt compelled to take my teachings to a global level. I explained the way traditional Chinese couples start a relationship; it’s through being introduced. Once acquainted, they quickly evaluate mutual interest, and then either begin a serious relationship or break it off. So if you wanted a meaningful relationship, the easiest way would be for someone to introduce you to a woman. At least, it seems to work in other cultures.

I met up later with Gunner, a man fresh from the grasp of the military who was a retired Army reconnaissance officer. He wanted to try out a local brewery located in the back of an old-school strip mall called The Pruneyard. Just as we toasted and began sipping our Rock Bottom Brewery Terrapin Alt beers, across the room came a loudly proclaimed, “Fa shizzle ma nizzle!”

We (and everyone else) turned to see a pony keg of a guy working his groove right towards us in a fur-lined Puffa jacket and combat trousers, with a three-inch-thick silver pendant chain around his neck.

“Fabulous jacket,” I exclaimed with much admiration.

The guy looked menacing, but entertaining. I was pretty certain that he knew Gunner by his deliberate beeline to our table.

“Yeah!” he exclaimed. “It’s all about the Benjamins, baby!!”

Meet “Brotha Lunch,” Gunner’s half-brother and budding rapper—or more specifically, a budding gangsta rapper. He pulled up a chair, sat on it backwards, looked at Gunner and asked, “What it is?”

My date was clearly embarrassed and balefully uncomfortable. He was on a blind date and his attention-grabbing brother appeared on the scene. It was a bit weird, so I quickly steered the conversation to include the three of us, hopefully comfortably. I saw this as the only palliative after Brotha L had so rudely butted into our date.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I complimented Lunch’s stylin’ name and let him know that I was pickin’ up what he was layin’ down by saying I knew Sacramento rapper Brotha Lynch Hung Lynch, whose second album dropped in 1995. He immediately sparked like I was the Oakland Po-Po on a Saturday night, and quickly said he had too much street cred to steal a game.

“Lunch” said he wanted to be like Nate Dogg and rob a Taco Bell, or like Snoop Dogg and get 25-to-life for murder, but get off scot free. Even though I was pretty sure Brotha L didn’t have the ten points of “street cred” I was looking for, I knew that focusing the conversation on him would be more note-worthy than what I’d seen from Brotha Gunner thus far.

I had a few beers and I was in the mood for fun banter, plus all my conversations with Gunner prior to the date had been kind of taut. I was glad “L” arrived, and my date “G” seemed okay with the fact I was chatting with, and being kind to his brother. I sipped my Singletrack Copper Ale and adjusted myself in my hard chair. Then Lunch and I got down to it.

“The first step in the hip-hop world,” he said, “is creating a handle.”

I commented that perhaps something influenced by Schooly D’s name would be dope. I also added that I thought his lyrical focus on the lifestyles of inner-city gang members and criminals could be antiviolent if he spun it right. He nodded enthusiastically. He was actually listening to this suburban white girl sitting in front of him.

“Like how the Beastie Boys produced proto-gangsta rap tracks on their 1989 album, Paul’s Boutique,” I went on. “Misogyny creates a conflict between gangsta rappers and women in which these men struggle to empower themselves. Gangsta rap is their means of this empowerment. This is how they throw it down.”

I prattled on with all my key points like there was no tomorrow, and like I actually knew what the hell I was talking about. He would answer me every time with a punctuated “fa sheezy weezy in the keezy” (translation: “we certainly do feel at home”) or a gut-busting laugh and “tribble ribble ma nizzle” (translation: “ah, that’s hilarious”).

When empty glasses stood before us, Brotha Lunch proclaimed that he had to go “kick it with his road doggs on the E side ‘cause he’s rollin’ with the new jack crew.’”

He flashed a peace sign at me when he trotted off, and I looked at Gunner, feeling quite pleased with my bad self. Homey G, however, made it clear that he was always embarrassed by his brother, and his feelings about that were as subtle as a flying brick. After a long silence, Gunner remarked, “The only thing he said to my last date was ‘Hey, phunky monkey, you got some junky in your trunky.’”