I'm Mad at Portland

I went on three dates this week instead of two. Insanity? Perhaps. D. and I continue our long-distance love affair, only soon it will become longer distance since he will be in Geneva for work starting October 10th through the end of January. If I had any money whatsoever I would fly out to Paris or Rome and meet him (yes, for the first time) but since I have none, I'll simply wait by the mailbox and will the tickets to arrive. My hair will gray while I wait, but that's happening anyway, and I've got time.

How unromantic and romantic at the same time. Right now, D. is at a wedding in Panama and continues to text often. Last night as K. and I watched the swifts (migrating birds) fly overhead, ducking in and out of the Chapman school chimney, I couldn't help but think of D. And as K. pointed out, the birds are on their way soon toward Panama too and maybe, just maybe D. will see one of the same birds I saw last night. We had had a text miscommunication whereby I asked him if he "had ever been to Brown." Brown is a restaurant in his/my old neighborhood, Lower East Side. He texted back, "What does 'have you ever been to Brown' mean?" I explained that they had good coffee and that he was gross. He explained that he grew up with 6 sisters and women were far more vulgar than men.

Is it just me? Or should I not be having anal sex jokes with a guy I haven't met yet? Now, I'll be known as "that girl" to his friends, who he mentioned were blushing in regard to my text.

Great. Onward!

Date 9? Who can remember? We go to the PSU farmer's market and this guy is a saint because A) I'm fielding a million cell phone calls from people viewing my apartment in NYC and my parents (subletting my old apartment) and B) he's fine with me being distracted. He's attractive, well adjusted, funny, and smart. At one point, while perusing squash, he removes a folded up, silk looking satchel.

"A murse?" I ask.

"Excuse me," he says.

"A man purse," I add.

It wouldn't have been so bad except for the fact that it had silhouettes of flowers on it, his white button down was starched and wrinkle free, his sunglasses were mirrored 70s style. I was on a date with a man more stylish than I am. I was on a date with a metro-sexual.

Need I say more? We parted ways without a handshake or a hug and I could see skipping off into the sunset, being fantastic friends with him and perhaps vice versa. But the thought of sex never crossed my mind and I doubt his.

Am I doomed forever to date men I could never ever be friends with? Why do I date the enemy?

Date 10 or G.
Sunday night. Signs of trouble, a text last week asking for an impromptu date. While not unheard of, this signals an overt casual tone to a first date, which I'm sorry, but should have a hint of pomp and circumstance, shouldn't it? It should be a touch special, but that's just me. After all, if it ever blooms into more, then you will look back at the first date many times and reflect upon it. A text saying:"you around tonight?" doesn't exactly qualify for romance.

Instead of going out last week, we met Sunday night for a drink. At first I suggested a bar near me, but since he lives way out in NE I changed the venue to the Bye and Bye on Alberta. Also, I had a very dear friend's birthday drink event there anyway, S., and figured I could attend that hour and then excuse myself for my date. As a Capricorn, I try to be as efficient as I can.

He's tall. Way tall. But that's okay, I didn't even read the height section on match this time. I've been fairly callous, in some regards. I judge by picture and description and make sure they have jobs. If I mentioned what G. actually does, I fear I could be sued, so I'll m ake something up which is not nearly as fantastical: he is below 7 feet, but not by much, a doll parts maker, in a The Dalles. See? Not so funny. But I swear,the real version is.

He's already told me he lied about his age. He is not 30 but 34. Who cares? Now he tells me he lied about his height. He's not 6'3" but something else. Again, who would care about this? We sit at an outdoor mini-picnic table and chit chat easily.

"I'm hungover," he announces, "do you want anything from the bar?"

"A little heroin?" I cough. "Just a water."

I'm still finishing my lemon drop, managing to curl my lips over the sugary rim (that may be the most provocative part of this blog, good lord). It's a wonderful drink that cost $4. Should I fly to Paris, fall for D., move to NYC, have 10 children, live in Brooklyn, I will surely miss these cheap, sweet, wonderful drinks. I like Portland, but I'm mad at Portland. Show me something good, Portland! One decent man. One decent job. I'm ready.

Dollmaker returns and he's nice, he's fine, a bit rough around the edges. He tells me about an old roommate who was 25, from Poland and a virgin. He used phrase like "pop her cherry" and "throw down" and "a Mexican guy."

Am I a prude? Am I that annoying PC person? Am I asking too much? I have been told that I'm very focused on manners. I think manners are important, especially during the first date. But I'm wondering if this logic is wrong somehow. I know women in Portland who belch in public, not even covering their mouths, same thing with yawning. They lift their arms, exposing hairy pits and don't think twice.

I am not these women.

After an hour I'm ready to go. I don't dislike the dollmaker, but he could have washed his hands; there is dirt under four of the five fingernails on his right hand. I am hoping it is dirt. Or he could wear gloves. Wash them or wear gloves, but don't show up dirty. A full body shower is a wise move and hoped for, but not expected.

I do like him, and a part of what I like is that he acknowledges that he's a curmudgeon. But I see the signs: he hates his job, he's vulgar, he's bitter on dating. Catch and release. Or as my dad would say, "Another one will be along in five minutes. Like a bus."

If he only knew.