Man Turns Out to be Louse: News at 11

For those of you following the blog, I finally had a date with D. The best way to describe it is to go back in time to the parking lot at Trader Joe's in SE. I finish a work phone call, get a message from my mother: my dad has driven into a telephone pole, then a text from D. All within 5 minutes. My dad was in the hospital for two nights and is okay. As okay as anyone who has driven into a telephone poll can be. He has told me repeatedly about the very attractive blonde lady in an SUV with nice, leather seats, who helped him out at the scene.

But this blog is about dates, not real life. So back to D.'s text. After he dropped off the universe for nearly 3 months, he writes that he is sorry to have gone "dark" on me and has wanted to write for a very long time. He has had death in his family, perhaps multiple ones and he was in Haiti for work, where of course there was more death. I sleep on this before deciding to reply. When I do it's ping pong again. I write to him that yes, I was disappointed and how was he planning to make it up to me? Of course he wrote back immediately telling me he was free any night of the week during my visit and there would be a bottle of wine involved. Okay, I told myself, be curious. But I instructed him that he must wear the bow tie and argyle socks or it was a no-go.

I leave Leroy at my brother's apartment with his puzzle-chicken toy (just an excuse to make L. famous) and take the train from Clinton Hill into the West Village. En route who should call me? D. "Are we meeting at 7:30? If so, I can leave work right now and take a cab." It is 7:27. I write back Interesting. Yes, 7:30. Inside, I get myself set up at Employees Only with my $14 cocktail and a barstool. I chat with the couple next to me. The man asks me if anyone is sitting there, in the seat next to me. I say yes, a very small man, he is under my purse.

I didn't yet know how accurate that statement would be. Metaphorically.

D. breezes in the door, camel overcoat, beard....bow tie. He is cute in a Robert Downey Junior-esque way and funny. I have flirted a bit with the gay bartender. But wow, D. becomes best friends with him, having him concoct a new drink on the spot. The couple next to me - they had wanted to chat about unemployment in Portland - raise their eyebrows in approval. Everyone appears to love D. Just as much as I do, at least the text version. In public too, he is larger than life and sweet: he touches me many, many times, flirts, we laugh and chat easily. About what? Who knows? Those rare conversations where it's comfortable and exciting at the same time.

D. suggests dinner. Ever playful, he takes a card from the bar and writes down seven options. I add cupcakes to the list. We both love New York and being playful and getting dressed up. We go to Lupa's for dinner. We eat everything, first course second course, wine, wine, gelatto, coffee. I'm surprised the tablecloth is in tact when we leave. We talk about our life stories, family, travel, celebrities, the important topics. The woman sitting next to me starts up a conversation with us. We are so popular. Look at us! Who would not want to talk to us? She is a bit of a bubble-head, naive in her name dropping of famous chefs. I don't like that sort of talk and I certainly don't know the people she is referring to. She searches my face, waiting for me to be impressed. I like to be kind, so I feign some eyebrow raising. D. does not. He is not amused, suspect, very quiet. He speaks Italian and tells me what our neighbor's friend is discussing with another man: the restaurant scene in NY. We get out of there quickly.

On the street D. whistles for a cab so hard that I see windows shatter in the tiny, dark apartments above us. A group on the street laughs and says how impressed they are. I yell back, "He's been practicing for years." We are swooped up in a cab. We go to a bar without a name or I don't remember a name. We talk and joke and flirt some more. D. asks me to stay in town 'til Tuesday and I say no way, I have clients back in PDX. I can't do that. It is quite fun and at 2 or 3am we start walking east. I explain that I can catch a cab back to Brooklyn from D.'s LES neighborhood because the cabbie can pop onto the bridge from there. We walk, talk some more; it's nice.

On Rivington D. hails a cab, tells me how nice it was to finally meet me. He asks me if I'm free for dinner Saturday night. I explain that I'll be with my family but I could meet later in the evening on Friday, after I see an old friend. He explains that he too has dinner plans but he'd love to see me at 9:30. Okay. We do two kisses, one per cheek and I go in for a quick peck on the lips. I've had 4-5 cocktails and this is about as bold as I get. Fast forward to Friday evening.

I have a lovely evening beverage or two with my friend A. and two former lady colleagues after my face is nearly frozen off from NYC wind. A brunette quartet situation is repeated. We had planned to go to China Chalet down near Wall Street, but it being karaoke night and the bar being located near the bus that goes to Staten Island, it was jam packed. Our favorite bartender, Kiki, would have to wait. Instead we went to Sho, a new beautiful bar, and drink cocktails while men in suits laugh and act like what they are, Wall Street cogs. Then A. and I grabbed some Indian food, where I have a dosa as large as a leg. By 9:30 it is clear D. will not be in touch. (I had sent him a text at 3pm that day asking about coordinating plans.) No word. Ever.

Earth shattering news: Man Disappoints Woman. Again.

Or man turns out to be louse. Well, pushy, Jewish, short woman whose name I can't remember and who wrote that book about love, thank you. At least I'm 'dating' two other men in Portland.

News at 11.

Program of Three

Apparently it is no longer good enough to date around or go on a certain number of dates a week. If one works a program of three - that is find three men to date who one actually likes - then one can make a proper decision about one's future mate. The theory posits that often one meets one exciting said guy and one becomes obsessive and over-emotional. Since one slammed down said book and curled said lip, perhaps this book makes a decent point. Juggle and remain rational. Could it be that easy?

According to a certain author whose name shall remain a secret and whose book, Love in a Certain Number of Days. Too embarrassing to say how many (90), but clients who work the program get results. The author is a therapist, as well as a pushy Jewish woman, i.e. she knows her shit and she's going to tell you about it.

So far I have one candidate and will go on date 2 tomorrow. What you need to know: Japanese food. West side. More soon. He has promise and I need not jinx it. At least not yet. I no longer believe in fate or skill but simple luck and of course, witches curses.

I had to share the email I received below from a totally different suitor. I ask you: is he on drugs? (FYI: Without seeing my internet profile you may assume you are missing some references and that the email makes some sense. You would be wrong with the exception of the Chabon book.)

One is (perpetually) mystified by men like this, a little confused, a little surprised, and yes, there was some defrosting, if not a warming of the heart.

Note
c. I thought about sending you b sharp but didn't want to sound condescending. It's all the same I though, I guess. You looked at my profile and you were heart broken. I know. I'm sorry. You know what they say about the early bird? But it's okay; it's nothing massive quantities of alcohol won't cure.

The Amateur’s Guide huh? That's a little advance for me. If they had like a really basic basic guide on manhood, well that I'd buy. I mean, I know nothing; like to put a photo on match.com shirtless. Is that manly? I don't see the women doing it.

I was about to wish you good luck, but then was going to write extra luck, but you don't need extra luck. Actually to be on an even playing field with the other ladies, you need a lot less luck. Still wishing you find the guy.

Oh, those nerdy, neurotic, scared, bumbling men (for lack of a better word) you cross by way of this site, be nice. We's people too.

I Got a Boyfriend...or 2

First, excuse my absence. I just couldn't take anymore dates, any more disappointment, any more below par men. Seems to be a plethora out there. So far I'd grade my experience a C and frankly, I'm aiming for out of the park, A plus. Perhaps my expectations are too high. I'd love to meet a guy who is breathing, has all his limbs, and a job, and it might help if we like each other. Last night, on the way to Hot Pot City with friends I said that I want to meet a guy who is cute and before I could continue with my list I was interrupted. Apparently, cute is no longer a reasonable expectation for women my age. It has come down to:

"A feature you could find endearing." Added after a silence, "Some day."

Fair enough. I guess when the lights are out the lights are out. But really, I'd like more than a feature. I'd like an overall cuteness and if I can't have that, then I'll go with at least a cute look. How's that? Setting the bar too high yet again.

In a pinch there are some standbys. My boyfriends: Mr. Vornado (a space-heater) and Freddy (as in Freddy Meyer's). I put my face in front of Mr. Vornado all morning long while on the computer and during a winter in Portland - with nearly no insulation in my house - this thing is a godsend. Perhaps better than any boyfriend I've had, he's Italian and perfectly reliable. Next, Freddy. Always there when I need him and has everything a girl could need including free cheese samples on weekdays and yarn. Though I share him with other women, I simply feel better after a visit.

So there you have it. Zero dates. Two boyfriends. A hundred cups of coffee. A thousand dog walks. A million minutes of kvetching.

I promise to be back in January and to go on...dare I say it, two dates a week again? No, I learned my lesson. I was all dated out. But maybe one a week. If nothing more than to prove a point: this is my experience. It is not a fiction; it really is this hard out there. At least for me.

An ex, who claimed not to have read my blog, said it was tacky. Well I take his tacky and I raise him one: this is my experience, this is my life, and if it's tacky or unpleasant or disappointing or if some of the guys come off as duds, all I can say is: this is real --

Show me what you got Portland.

At 8pm the Chicken Goes Half Price!

My last date with L. was supposed to begin at Huber's. I know, the Spanish Coffee, the Spanish Coffee, the Spanish Coffee. Everyone raves about it. But when I arrived downtown and poked my head into the restaurant and then the bar, I noticed blue haired ladies and felt a bit of dread. I'd picked a bad place. A bad place with old people! Luckily L. was fine with eating at a Persian restaurant around the block.

The food was decent with huge portions. My theory is that restaurants in Portland feel like portion size makes up for quality, when really it doesn't. Anyway, the date was very nice but we missed the movie I'd wanted to see, playing at 6:50 at The Laurelhurst, 500 Days of Summer. That left us with the other idea of watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. L. had been raving about this show. Because of certain logistical issues: he watches on a laptop, didn't have the proper adapter cord to connect it to a TV, etcetera, a visit to Freddy Meyer's proved useless yet amusing, we ended up in the "entertainment room" at his building, with an unsuccessful hook up to the TV there, and then just huddled around his little computer to watch.

Side note:
At FM's we run into a friend of his. When asked what he was doing in FM's (huge grocery store) at nearly 8pm on a Saturday night, he explained that at 8pm the chicken goes half price.

Well, that's one exciting way to spend an evening. I dearly hope it was the rotisserie and not slices of chicken. Slices of chicken at a deli counter. Does it get more depressing? I wasn't enjoying the florescent lighting - it certainly wasn't doing justice to my newly chestnut locks and highlights, but I was going with it. It definitely felt less romantic that visiting the opera and getting hot toddies at Caldera, as we did last week.

That said, after the show, which is gross and almost amusing and then gross again, "things progressed" and I can't quite explain it but something felt missing. I tried to explain this to L. I really like him, but between our last date and this one some enthusiasm felt absent both on my part and maybe his, some ephemeral piece of the connection. He said he felt it too and that he'd been a bit depressed since our last date.

Never a fantastic sign. I'm wondering if, now stop the presses, drum roll please....it's not all them. But me? Could it be me? Could it not be all the men I go out with? Ridiculous, I know. But evidence is pointing in that direction.

Still, I'm going to hold my ground: I want to meet someone I have fun with, who likes peace and quiet, who adores my dog, who is sincere, and cute and there's attraction. In the scope of the world, I don't think that's too outlandish. It just might mean more future dates.

On my drive home, I didn't feel terribly upset. But there was a part of me that felt like the half priced chicken. Like my value decreased after 8pm.

Death, Love, the Underworld, the Usual

L. and I grab a quick dinner at Matador, replete with crazy LA style goblets of Malbec and Shiraz. We use the Tom-Tom to find the theatre and it fails us royally, yet we make it to the opera with five minutes to spare. I'm an expert on rushing, so this feels normal. He's gotten us tickets to see Orphee, a Philip Glass opera. I suffer from a rarely diagnosed disorder of falling asleep the minute the lights go down at any performance. I have many stories of movies missed, plays slept through, and bands that were silent, because of this. I never sit too close to the stage. It's a bit of an experiment to see how those around me respond.

L. put his hand on mine, "You're falling asleep."

I tell him, "I'm awake. I'm awake." I improve my posture as if this is proof positive of how awake and alert I am. Then I explain. "It's so relaxing. The lights go out and my eyes...just close."

L. looked very handsome in his suit jacket and jeans and he didn't seem upset and soon enough he was caressing my hand, which instantly made me awake for the remainder of the performance, though I'd be hard pressed to give a summary of the plot line. There was the fantastical stuff, death, love, the underworld, the usual.

It was lovely to be at the opera. This whole other world takes place in Portland at night and for some reason I've not chosen to be a part of it. I believe with my knitting, cheap wine, and A., I've been in hibernation mode. Back in New York I'd been more involved, more active, more into the arts. So it's lovely to be here with L. and have him re-introduce something into my life that's purely for pleasure. There is no need to be here tonight, it's all an elective. Listening to this story, hearing the swells and arcs of Glass's musical stories, the punches he throws and learning about lost love and chauffeurs, I feel different, like a light is shining on a little lost part of me.

Afterwards, we go for hot toddies at Caldera, not realizing until the lights are flashing that we are some of the only patrons and at a whopping 11:30pm they are closing. I love Caldera and go there often. It's an old house way out on 60th and Stark, converted into a restaurant/bar with a back deck and a black bath tub that's now a couch and lots of worn, old wood, rich cakes, pies, plus elaborate drinks.

Fast forward...

L. and I sleep just a little and make it to Mt. Tabor the next morning with A. A. cannot get enough of L. He chases her, attacks her paws, grabs her snout and she comes back for more and more and more. It's a lovely morning and a lovely walk and L. doesn't end up going home until 3pm that day. He lets me know about his recent divorce and his school responsibilities, I take this in. He describes himself as flawed and we agree we are both flawed and at this age, everyone else is too. But still, my ears perk at this warning. We go for brunch at Arletta Library Cafe. Because I'm more practical than emotional lately, I don't feel upset by what he said. He knows I'm applying to PhD programs back East. I explain to him that I like him and want to get to know him better. Soon enough he's asking about our next plans and texting me as he drives home and later that same night.

I like him. I really do. There is something familiar and yet foreign about him. And then my phone rings and it's M. (my ex-boyfriend that I moved out to Portland with). I decide to call him back later in the night. Fine. He's been pushing. Okay. He can be my friend. He's 1,000s of miles away.

But for now, I'll just bask in the glow of L.

Privacy Setting

Date #3 with L. I get lost, in many ways. First, I cannot find the restaurant. I've lived in Portland for over three years and have yet to visit this nook near OHSU, Riverfront. It's composed of winding long, dark roads, leading to ultra-modern, new skyscraper types - a small, carved out neighborhood somewhere near the 5, Naito Parkway, and the river, and yet only a few streets allow entry into this spot. FYI, Market street is nice to know "goes through." I had moments of doubt and three phone calls to the restaurant for directions, arrived 25 minutes late and yet, was ecstatic to find it at all. L. had killed his phone and so I couldn't even text him to say I was running late. Actually, I did text him knowing he'd not get it, but needing to tell someone somewhere out there that I'd be late for something.

L. is understanding about my lack of promptness and we eat sushi, then visit his apartment and go to the 5th floor with our glasses of Riesling onto the eco-terrace. The eco-terrace and this whole neighborhood is as surreal as it sounds. I feel like I'm in an episode of the Jetsons. It's modern hotel-style living and riding in the silent elevator, for a moment I wish my whole life could be as straight forward and simple as this ride. Silently, I'm led from place to place. No decisions necessary. Each swift move as calibrated and direct as the design of this building, this eco-terrace, this strange land.

"Let me turn on the fire," L. says. And two seconds later there is the appearance of a fire, we're on the rooftop, sitting beside it, watching a woman silently exercise in the all glass room nearby. She's on the treadmill. I watch her legs scramble to keep up, her unforgiving pace.

"So Portland is small," L. tells me. "Really small."

I agree with this.

L. has a pained look on his face. "I found your blog."

The air inside my lungs is gone and I feel tears approaching but I'm able to hold them back, if I don't look directly at him.

"I'm sorry," I say, not wanting to look at L. I am mortified. "I think I should leave."

He asks me to stay. Once I catch my breath and find my voice I explain that it's really just for my friends to read and to stay in touch, and for me to reflect on my experiences.

"That's fine," L. says, and he couldn't sound kinder. He's nearly whispering and I can barely hear him, this has its advantages as I wish we weren't having this conversation. "Is this like a project? I don't want to end up in the New York Times."

Can't anything not turn to shit? I let this concern of his sink in. I assure him I didn't write anything negative about him. A large part of the blog was to provide a place to share my experiences with other people because I couldn't believe how challenging dating had become. I hadn't meant to hurt anyone's feelings.

"What's wrong with the New York Times?"

Finally L. laughs; it's a welcome sound. "I love the New York Times."

"You're definitely not a project. These are my experiences. I just wanted to write about them. To own them." I stop myself here because I can imagine as much as I feel my privacy violated, he must feel it much more so, "I'm sorry you read it and it bothered you. I can take it down."

L. says that isn't necessary but that I need to protect my privacy on facebook, so he doesn't feel tempted to keep reading it. I had thought I did this already. "That's fair," I say, "and I'll need to blog about this."

He says he's fine with this arrangement though I'm not sure how much I want to blog about it. Bad dates are one thing, but good dates and the hopefulness attached to them, are another.

We went upstairs, he picked the Your Friends tab under the Privacy Setting on facebook. There were some kisses and we discussed outfits for our Friday night date. I described what I was planning to wear: a sweater dress. It's a sweater but it's a dress and a dress and a sweater. Hence, casual. There were more kisses.

I found my way home on the 5. It was easy and right there all along.

Miracles Happen: Junior Mints, Kiss

I went on a date with L. He asked me out again. We went on a second date. There was a kiss. There was kissing. I like him. He likes me. He makes this clear. He sends me emails, texts, and there are phone calls. I've met with him in real time. Can this be possible? Can this actually be happening?

My faith is renewed. I no longer have the urge to strangle the creators of match. After all the negative blogs, here's some sugar. L. and I met for coffee. He moved here from the East Coast a year or so ago to go back to school. We're the same age; this is his second career. He's very intelligent and cute and during our first date I enjoyed his company, however after all the previous dates and this being "one of the last ones" I simply showed up and didn't care all that much. Of course there were special hair products, but besides that, no crazy effort. I do remember telling him that some of my best decisions have been made while I was drunk, but that's another story...

On the second date we met for dinner at the Bye & Bye, though vegan, the atmosphere is perfect for dating: proper lighting and low key, not too crowded. Immediately when I saw him I thought very handsome. Often I can't remember what a guy looks like exactly, especially if I might like him. Also, I felt a bit self-conscious, which had happened on zero earlier dates. After dinner we went to see District 9, a very light, romantic comedy about aliens who clearly resemble huge shrimp that is a metaphor for apartheid. (I highly recommend it. I was engrossed.) While on line for tickets at the Kennedy School I began discussing Junior Mints and the lack their of. From my angle I could only see Sour Patch type candy and Red Vines. These will do in a pickle but not my favorite treat. I really wanted a Junior Mint and I wanted it bad.

Then guess what? L. said he saw Junior Mints! He found them for me. He has great peripheral vision! My hero! We were flirting. Flirting on a date. This is huge. And did I mention he hooked me up with junior mints? After the movie he suggested a drink, which meant two drinks for me which = tipsy. I said yes. We had our drinks and then our goodbye with hand touching and kissing in the parking lot. But I don't like to kiss and tell too much. Except....there was kissing and I'm telling. I'm telling anyone who will listen! Kissing!

Anyway. Since then he has purchased tickets for our next date. He has given thought to what we talked about and what we both might like. Miracles! He has called me the day after our date. He has said he had a good time. L. even offered to watch my dog, A. in two weeks because I'll be away for the night. I think he may not be human. (Of course I declined, at least at this stage.)

This is an incredible situation: a man who might just want to make my life better instead of more complicated. Who wants to impress me and please me and who doesn't seem to need me to take care of him? And he's cute, has ambition, and is thoughtful on top of that?

Juxtapose this with an email from M. date 2 (the one who arrived with $10, no n-working debit card, a cold sore,and a big chip on his shoulder?). He wrote to thank me for our dates and to say he just didn't feel chemistry. That we were different people. On the one hand this is a polite gesture, but on the other, I couldn't imagine why he thought I might want to go out again. I wanted to write back regarding his dating manners, but I couldn't summon the energy to care that much. Instead I wrote him a short note:

Hey M., thanks for the message. I was feeling much the same way and I feel like that's the purpose of dating - to get to know people. Actually, I did start dating someone from match who I like a lot.

Ta!