PreDate

Alright. I might be losing my mind--I'll give you that one. But let me just run this one by you. Potential suitor from the Match.com emails me claiming his interest. I email back my return of interest. We go back and forth a bit. I give him my number after he asked for it, and then don't hear from him for over a week. I shoot him a friendly, casual hello email. He returns it with a zesty interest in getting together. We then engage in a txt messaging debacle that quickly goes from flirtatious to non-functioning to ridiculous. I won't break down every txt here for you, I'll sum it up as this: I assumed he was after a one night fling, and, apparently, he wasn't. How do I know he wasn't? Well, because after our txt messages got to the point of ridiculous he actually called me. And he was pissed--well, he said how could he possibly be affected by the snap judgements of a complete stranger--but, I can tell you, he was...perturbed. As he was making his point about how I decided from a few txt messages and a couple emails that all he was after was some casual happy time, I started thinking---oh shit, maybe he's right! Maybe I'm taking all my passed experience with douche baggery and labeling this guy before I've never even had one ACTUAL conversation. Is that not exactly the kind of judgement I wouldn't want made against me? But then again...when the only interactions we had were all coquettish innuendoes on his part, plus the fact that he invited me over to his house instead of out to a drink, that doesn't really leave me much to work with. But I can't deny that I just assumed a whole bunch of meaning out of a handful of back-and-forthing via txt messaging.

So now where does this leave the happy couple, you might ask? Well what do you do when you start off on the wrong foot? Should you just shoot yourself in the other and call it a day? I told him if he should want to get to actually know each other he should call me back later. And I meant it. Here's to a good old fashioned do-over.

PostDated

As another annual Eat-a-Thon passes by, I am reminded of a Thanksgiving from years ago. Back in 07', I had a friend in town from Texas, Shanda, and was living with my younger sister's best friend from high school, Nikki. It was Thanksgiving night. Shanda, Nikki, and I were lying around digesting the late afternoon meal of vegan Thanksgiving fair. It had been an awesome meal. Everything had turned out pretty well. Even Shanda’s friend, Skip, had enjoyed himself—but I have a suspicion that he would have agreed to choke down live Praying Mantis if it meant being wherever Shanda was. But that’s neither here nor there. We three hot chickadees were feelin’ the ‘go out’ itch. It was Shanda’s first night in town, after all. We found ourselves stumbling across the topic of karaoke, to which Nikki piped up she’d never once sang—our fate was sealed. I dove into the underwebs and located the nearest bars that offered karaoke. The first one that came up on Google was a place called Backstage offering karaoke Thursday through Saturday nights with a huge selection of songs.

Top and tails.

Called a taxi.

We were on our way.

As we pull up to the place, Nikki mentions that she had applied to work here a few weeks back and had remembered liking the feel of the place, even though she didn’t get the job. As soon as we stepped through the door we all agreed.

A sports barish feel with a trendy ‘ice fire’ place, pool table, karaoke stage floor, and a black and white photo booth. Bangerang, Rufio.

We hook arms with the barmaid and have her place us at a tall table that will, she promises, be optimal for karaoke activity. We send her away with a high five and our beverage requests. I hold down the fort while the girls go investigate the photo booth. Alone at the table, I am momentarily left feeling self conscious, but I shake it off almost immediately and take stock of our fellow bar patrons.

A dashing black man near the trendy fire is having a flirtation with a longhaired and legged blond who seems to know our bar maiden quite well. A few middle aged couples. The ‘end of the bar’ regulars were chatting up the ‘girl group’ but my eye was caught by a jovial young guy flitting between a couple groups of people near the pool table.

“He looks a little like Zach Braff.” I say to myself, “I bet people tell him that all the time. If I met him I would make a point not to tell him that.”

As I scanned the rest of the people in that last area of the establishment, I noticed the girls were headed back to the table and I thought, “The only really attractive guy at the bar…well at least Shanda will have someone to make eyes with.”

Just as the girls sat down our drinks arrived. We get caught up in drink testing and karaoke song discussions. Thoughts of the boy fade into the background of our good times. 9:45: karaoke begins.

Nikki leaves the song choosing in Shanda and I’s hands. Shanda is up at the books scribbling down her songs right outta the gates. I pow wow with Nikki a bit about her song choice. She’s adamant about not flying solo for her first jump. As I walk up to the phonebook of song choices, Shanda turns hers in. She’d down for “Love is a Battlefield”, “Like a Prayer”, and “With or Without You.” A solid line up. I pour over the lists of songs and whittle it down to “Magic Man”, “Hot Blooded”, and “Stay” by Lisa Loeb. I decide on “All I Wanna Do” for Nikki’s big debut. It just felt…right.

The karaoke starts up and quickly fills the room with a warm hum of enjoyment. Some people are good, some fantastic; the few that are bad make up for it in heart. Shanda’s battlefield stirred up the troops. I added some zest with Magic Man, and Nikki stole a thousand hearts with her Sheryl Crowing. Then that dashing black man melted every pair of panties in the joint with his James Brown scoot. Followed by a BBW who knocked all our socks off with an R&B classic. A couple of gals in their 30’s that had had too many appletini’s made fools of themselves, and I was caught up in conversation with Shanda about picture taking when all the sudden I hear the intro for “New York, New York”. I look over to see the slightly Braffy boy strutting up to the DJ stand with a rocks glass in one hand.

He fuckin’ killed it.

We were screamin’ Johnny by the first refrain. I was wowed, Shanda took pictures, and as I watched him melt back into the crowd I was distracted by Shanda’s next ditty. Nikki and I danced our feet bloody. We took copious pictures. We couldn’t stop dancing even between songs. We were the little darlings of the karaoke show. Keeping the crowd revved, egging on the performers, pulling off teen moviesque dance routines without batting an eye.

Then Fake Sinatra comes back to reclaim the floor with a rendition of Sweet Caroline to beat the bank. He was goofy, cheesy, and sparkled like a Diamond. A few songs later I was back at the mic and while I waited for the intro of “Hot Blooded” to play through, I couldn’t help but notice he had found his way back to the floor’s edge. During my little performance I made sure to throw a few ‘choice’ lyrics in his direction but still not really thinking anything of it. My song ends and I stop at the table for a swig of Amstel Light, and high five from my chics. I turn to head towards the water closets and notice my Diamond in the rough has the same idea. The bathrooms are set up next to one another down a short hall. Each restroom is a single, no stalls. You just go in and lock the door behind you. Just as he’s closing his door I walk by and knock a little rhythm against it as I hurry past to the girls room. I get one button undone, and I hear the rhythm repeat against my door. Which my heart then repeats in my chest. Quick as a flash I’m out just in time to see him slip back into the men’s room. I drum once more and dodge back into my own home base. I wait a beat holding my breath: the knocks come again. I do a silent squeal dance and then open the door, reach out, grab a fist full of his t-shirt by the chest and pull that smarmy grin in for a kiss.

Passionate? Yes.

His chin is rough against my cheek, but his lips as soft as silk. I can feel his heart beating as crazily as my own. I have to grip his shoulder tightly to keep my hands from trembling—then someone knocks.

We stop, looking at one another momentarily perplexed at what should come next. Then another knock and we hear this through the door, “The other bathroom is free—go in there!” We giggle, we stumble, and we fall into each other behind the other door. I push him away when my head starts to swim. Our smiles are sheepish, eyes made shy by lips so bold. Someone knocks and we pull ourselves together to face the rest of the bar with as much dignity as we can possibly fake. But our emergence meets with no sneers or rolled eyes. An older dashing black fellow was crooning “Jack and Diane”, good feeling hung thick in the air. Then Mr. DJ called out my name for a final solo. I had forgotten all about “Stay”. I was handed the mic and made some fierce “can you believe this night” type eye contact with both Nikki and Shanda as the intro played.

I thoroughly hammed up the song. I could feel him watching my every move as if he was running his hands over my bare skin. After the song ends, the colors of the world start the swirl in my memory. I ordered another beer, danced to another couple of songs, we three had another go in the photo booth. Then my dreamboat was back with a bite of pumpkin pie on his finger for me to taste. And then he was licking the whip cream from my lips against the closed men’s room door. All I could think was, “this shit never happens to me. Please, don’t let me wake up.” My name is called from the DJ stand and we scramble back out to the floor so that I can sing “All the Jazz” with Shanda. After our song, it’s pretty much a free for all dance party until last call. I get the go ahead from the girls to call a cab so I swagger outside to use my phone. The boy somehow finds his way outside too, using a cigarette as his excuse. I finish my call and saunter over where he’s smoking and talking to another bar patron. I take the cigarette from betwixt his fingers and say, “It’s Travis, right?” Taking a drag after his name and letting the smoke trickle between my lips as I ask for confirmation. He nods, “And you’re Rynn.” We exchange a few other pleasantries with the other smoker, but we keep stealing glances at one another. I mention my calling for a taxi, and Travis immediately offers to take us home. Assuring me that he’s been drinking water for the last hour and lives very close by, himself. I run it by the girls, and then we’re off. His arm slung around me, we’re dancing to the last song stuck in our heads as we four stroll off to his car. He opens our door and moves a few things around to make room in the back for Nik and Shan. I pick a copy of a Kurt Vonnegut novel up off the passenger seat, and my heart jumps to my throat. “He’s got a Vonnegut book in the front seat!” I quickly blurt to the girls over the back of the seat while he strolls around the back of the car to the driver's side. He gets in and closes the door, immediately finding music for us to listen to. “I love that you have Vonnegut riding shotgun.”

“Well, I love that you love it.” Little heart shaped bubbles rise from the top of my head and float out into the night sky via his open moon roof as I direct him home.

He pulls down our long treacherous driveway, and we all get out. Nik and Shan run upstairs. He and I fall against the trunk of his car damp with evening dew. My hair is wet and cold against my neck, but his lips and breath are hot against the other side. I push him back and move around the side of the car. We stand close, looking at each other. I ask, “I’m sorry, what’s your last name?”

We both fumble over words trying to express a general mutual idea that something like this has never happened to either of us. “As soon as you walked in the door, I noticed you. I thought; there’s a girl with fire and life. A girl with something. I was just hoping to get some eye contact with you. Seriously.”

“You were the only guy with promise in the whole place. I pointed you out right away to my friends. Then you sang Sinatra, and it was all over.”

“It’s funny how you can meet someone and just be so taken by them immediately. I even really like the shape of your nose!”

“Are you putting me on? If I give you my number, are you really going to call?”

“Are you kidding! Look, give it to me now, and I’ll call you before I even get home.”

He called me before he left the driveway.

Things never really developed into anything serious between us. We dated about 6 weeks before he called it quits. Told me he always had the feeling that I was a lot more interested in him than he ever was in me, but who could blame me? With a first meeting like that, my lifetime of over romanticized love starvation ate him up like chocolate covered crack. He wanted to remain friends...we tried that for a year. But after a year of feeling strung along, I had to be honest with myself. I couldn't get over my crush on him. I couldn't stop wanting more than casual. I felt like I couldn't understand why or how he didn't feel the same way towards me--but, in hindsight, I realize that the guy I was so crazy about wasn't the real Travis. I never got a chance to really get to know Travis, because he didn't want to be known. By me, anyway.

It's still a great story, even with a not so happy ending. But what's love without heartbreak?

Right?

HoliDAyTE

I can't fuckin' help it--I love the holiday season. Maybe it's that romantic in me clawing her way to the surface having been aroused by the fumes swirling leaves in the air. Or the smog is making me loose my marbles. Either way--I still look forward to this time of year in a bittersweet kind of way. Bittersweet's always been my favorite kind of chocolate, so I don't see why it shouldn't be the same for a life in general.

I love the holidays because I get to see my family, whom I adore, I get to lay around for a week on my parents' couch, eat their food, and drink their top shelf booze. I get to wake up early and have coffee with my dad, and spend the afternoon reading and chatting with mom and Little. I get to sneak up the street, go behind the middle school and smoke a J with Bebe with the snow gently chiding us as it melts on our cheeks. We eat, we drink, we play board games and make each other laugh. But...(now here's where that touch of bitter stirs in) this will my 28th consecutive holiday season as a single.

No matter how content I am with being my own best company throughout the year, the holiday times always seem to punctuate one's solo silhouette. Why does it seem like everyone loves each other just a little bit more around this time of year? We all seem to find an exception for whatever has transgressed because...it's Christmas (Hanukah, Kwanza, etc etc). Or even just because it's the end of the year. Another whole year has come and gone, and we're all looking back, recapping the events, assessing the damages. I can imagine someone's hand feels a smidge snugglier when their fingers are braided with yours while strolling down a chilly leaf strewn street.

All those chestnuts roasting in open fires, hot cocoa, and new years eve countdowns sure make you feel the pressure! But I know I'll have someone to bring home to meet the folks, someday. I'll get to fret over the perfect gift for someone for months and burst with joy when they open it on Christmas morning. And when that New Years Eve countdown gets to 0, someone will get to be my first New Year's kiss. Maybe this year...or maybe not...

unDATE-able

Holy shit. Maybe it's the two cups of Seattle dark roast, but this morning I've got the jitters. Life jitters. I was watching the latest episode of Glee on the hulu.com the other day, and one of the incidental characters said something to the bitchy main character that really struck a chord.

"You go for men you know are unattainable so that when things don't work out it reaffirms your deep seeded belief that you are unworthy of love."

Wahwahweewah.

Is THAT my problem? Is the reason why I'm 28 years single because subconsciously I believe myself to be unworthy of affection? Secretly my brain is sabotaging my potential love life because it's like Groucho Marx says, "I wouldn't want to be a part of any club that'd have me."

When you start learning life lessons from a TV show, it's time to renew your library card.

I don't think self sabotaging is the issue here. I think part of it is my hardcore realistic brain combating my die hard romantic soul. My soul wants the magical passion of storybook true love, while my brain is constantly rolling its eyes. I feel like when it's "right", you'll know it. It won't be so hard to make things work--in fact, in the beginning, it won't be work at all. You won't have to worry about how much time to allow between emails or txt messages or phone calls. It won't matter if you ask them out or they ask you. There will be no need to decide when is "too early" to sleep together, or on which date it's okay to wear your hair in a ponytail. And my brain goes--fat chance, sucker. Keep holding your breath.

I feel like, for women, it's so much more about the "show" we have to put on. We're the ones painting up our faces, hoisting up our tits, binding our bellies, and hiking up our asses with high heels. What do guys do? Take a shower? Yes, I know some of them worry about what to wear and feel the pressure of how their car and wallet are going to be criticized. But is that really equatable to the hair removal, exercising, and bunions we must endure? Guys will tell you that they don't even LIKE all that presentation bull shit. They love a girl who's comfortable in no makeup, jeans and t-shirt. But what guys don't understand is that even that "natural" look comes out of 15 different cosmetic bottles, a drawer full of designer jeans, and a hundred dollar t-shirt.

Men are always saying that a woman can get laid any day of the week, without even trying. But that's total bull. Anyone can get laid any day of the week, just depends on how low you're willing to stoop. I'm not denying the power that some woman have. Beautiful women will always be powerful. Just as rich men will. And women can be very powerful after they've captured a man's heart--but only after. Until a man has surrendered his love and affection to a person, he's the one who gets to decide. Ugly men with great senses of humor can get gorgeous, smart, intelligent women. Fat, sloppy, arrogant men with money can get gorgeous, smart, intelligent (if not somewhat ruthless) women. The biggest trend in Hollywood right now is the fat, homely, Jewish guy get's the 10 point babe by being a "nice, good hearted, funny guy". Chics can get laid any day of the week...well that's why prostitution is the oldest profession in history.

Of course I'm speaking in generalities, stereotypes, and whatnot--but there's a reason why stereotypes are formed. There are exceptions to everything, ours is a world not etched in black and white. Paul Newman and Joan Woodward were a prime example. But they certainly don't make men like Paul Newman anymore. Maybe women are doomed to settle so that men can be satisfied thinking they've stolen a jewel from another man's crown.

Or maybe you just fall in love with someone and the world melts away around you. One woman's stalker is another woman's Romeo.

Dateable or Disabled?

So far on the Match.com journey I've already begun to notice some trends. Such as: every single man thinks they are "laid back" and all these laid back guys are looking for "down to earth" girls.

Mmhm. Got it.

Guys who have a dog, or dogs, always put pictures of their mutt in their profile. And usually in some kind of lovey dovey pose to top it off! Look, dudes, if you're trying to come off as a nice guy who loves animals you should just say, "I love animals, I own a dog. His name is Gerald." On the other hand, posting pictures of you and Gerald tucked into bed together with the caption, "there's room for one more!" is NOT the way to do it. Men have dogs because they want something to look after, something to unquestioningly tag along with whatever they want to do. Men who put their pups before pussy: as Liz Lemon would say, "that's a deal breaker, ladies!"

My next favorite 'relationship prerequisite' on the male dating list is: low maintenance and/or no drama.

Really?

I think you can pretty much assume most human beings want relationships that are easy to maintain and low stress. Not pointing out this obvious fact is not going to lead to the assumption that you are a man who enjoys high maintenance pretty pretty princesses who like to throw Rumplestiltzkins when you sneeze in their general direction. Also, what chic is EVER going to admit that they are high maintenance drama queens? Most a those bitches are so self involved that they don't even realize the level of hell they put everyone through! I know what you're thinking--how do you recognize a "diva" then? Hint: she'll be hot, an only child or only female child, or the youngest child, and will carry a brush and make-up in her purse at all times.

Next up we have the "wolf in sheep's clothing clause". Pour example: "I'm looking for something real, but I'm not in a hurry. I mean, I want to get married someday, for sure, but I want to take the time to get to know someone. Only fools rush in, right?"

Mmhm. Got it.

These are the dudes who are on the Match.com to "meet new people" ie bang lots of chics. They want to date around. Have fun without any kind of commitment in mind. They give you tons of pre-meet attention: emailing, instant messaging, txting, phone talking etc. Then you finally meet up and even if you have a great time together--they fade to black. These are gamers who say they hate playing games. Sitting on their ass 'sex shopping' via the triple W. Condoms up their sleeves next to the Ace of spades.

Dating websites tend to give everyone a false sense of where they lie in the dating caste system. And I'm no exception. You start trolling through these mini people reports, and so many of them are just.....depressing. All you can think about is how your profile compares to theirs. How your collage of pictures stands up to the smattering of images they've posted. You always figure people post the most flattering pictures of themselves that they can find, and only tell you the great and awesomest things about their lives. You read their little blurb about who they're looking for and think "that could totally be me!" So you say hi or wink or nudge or whatever each respective site calls their means to express your initial interest in someone. But most folks aren't interested. Then you look in your own inbox at the side show of human calamity that has expressed interest in YOU, and that snaps reality right back into place. I mean, it's the same as in the real life. You're attracted to tons of people, but very few are going to be attracted back, and even fewer are going to turn out to be someone you really want to build a life with. One of the most real magical phenomenons, I think, is the coming together of two people who actually have crushes on each other. Human A sees Human B and is zapped by cupid's taser. Totally unbeknownst to Human A, Human B is also zapped. Out of everyone around, these two want each other. That shit is amazing. And it's my fascination with that touch of real world magic that keeps me coming back up to bat strike out, after strike out, after strike out, after strike.........

Determined Date

We really did it, folks. We hitched our stuck up noses to the Match.com bandwagon. Look out love! Oh brother.

Now, I don't want to delude anyone into thinking that this is my first foray into the online dating scene. No no no. I was dabbling with The Onion personals way back in 02'. Those Onion Personals have gone the way of the Do Do now. I believe they were morphed into OKCupid or some such thing. I met a number of young suitors from that internet matchmaker. There was one particularly unbelievable date that comes to mind. One that will forever stand out as a great example of how life is simply a comedy of errors.

The Red Head with Scoliosis

I was an innocent lass of 22 and new to the ways of internet matchery. It was also back in the days when digital cameras were not part of cell phones and still cost a mostly unaffordable penny. People had only one, maybe two pictures posted to their profiles--that's it. So if you were sneaky you'd find a profile shot or something with you in front of Big Ben or the Eiffel Tower to casually keep your likeness a mystery. Enter, O'Connor.

Profile shot of him laughing open mouthed at a life sized puppet mirroring his expression. It was cute, campy, and I had to give him credit because he didn't have frosted tips sticking out the top of an Abercrombie and Fitch visor (it was the fall of 2003 in Tucson AZ, people, don't tell me you don't remember that look). He had witty sarcastic things to say in his profile, and said he was a writer up in Phoenix. 25, 5'10, ex-high school wrestler, auburn hair. We did the email swap. Then we chatted on the AIM. Finally we ended up on the phone for a solid 20 minute chat/date set up. He seemed a decent enough guy, maybe a tid bit nervous but--hey, who wasn't? He said he was coming down to Tucson to review a band for the paper he worked for in Phoenix, so would I like to "grab something to eat, or whatever?" Needless to say, I was charmed.

He came down. Called when he hit the parking lot of my building so I had the pleasure of watching him pull up. And what treasure, pray tell, beheld my eyes? A late 80's Hugo hatch back with so much garbage, nerd litter, and debris that you could barely see out the back windowS (plural). I walked up to the driver's side window while he half assedly pretended to make room for me in the passenger seat. I shook off the initial shock and chided him gently, telling him "why don't you give this beauty a rest. I'll drive us around." He smiled sheepishly and parked. I watched him get out of his vehicle. The first thing I noticed was when he got out of the car, it seemed like he didn't quite make it all the way out. Like he'd left about 5 or 6 inches back in that clown car of trash because if he was claiming 5'10--I was the star of The Attack of the 40ft Woman. Then it seemed, as he started to walk toward me, that he was having trouble walking and just standing up straight in general. A few more steps and he was close enough for me to see him under the street light. A bright shock of orange hair flamed wildly a top his head, a pair of cheap wire rim glasses sat on his freckled nose. A khaki tan Members Only jacket was zipped snugly over a paunchy belly nearly blending in seamlessly to the khaki Dockers adorning his bottom half. And a dirty off-white pair of Reebok High tops with one broken shoe lace. Being the desperately empathetic soul I am, my first thought was, "You sniveling little lying shit bag!" But then he stuck out his hand to introduce himself and the illustrious words of The Dude popped into my head, "Fuck it."

As we got into my car he said he was glad I'd be driving because the drive down from Phoenix really aggravated his right hip. Which was his bad hip...because of the sever scoliosis he's had since birth. He hoped the sore hip wouldn't effect his mini-golf game--which was our planned pre-dinner activity. I was the one who'd suggested putt-putt (it IS the UFD*, after all) and therefore immediately wondered how high the uncomfortable factor was going to get tonight. But I'd enjoyed what little conversation we'd shared in the week or so leading up to this date so my hopes were still high about at least having a fun time with a new friend. Round two: 18 holes of "fun".

I'd chosen an old dilapidated course that was charming in it's chintziness. Half of the obstacles didn't work or were patched so heavily you could count the layers of paint on the nipples of the mermaid on the bow of the mini pirate ship. It was mostly deserted when we got there. The kid working the counter looked about as thrilled to be alive as Edgar Allen Poe. As we're purchasing our clubs and choosing ball colors, O'Connor is yapping a mile a minute about his mini-golfing expertise. Trying to talk to Chuckles behind the counter like they were old pros. It...was...off-putting. And we begin.

Our first topic of conversation is: work. I ask him about the show he's going to review. He tells me it's an underground hip-hop group that he heard about from some friends.

Hmph. Underground hip-hop. Ya don't say. What paper was it he writes for, you ask? I was wondering the same thing.

Oh, it's the free penny saver that his church puts out every couple weeks.

...

He doesn't get paid, yet anyway. Just doing some interning to prove himself to the editor.

Good thinking.

Two more holes go, and then I happen to land a hole in one on the fourth hole. I turn thinking we'd exchange a nice high five only to be greeted with his first expletive of the evening.

"That's bullshit!"

...

"I can't believe you got a hole in one first!"

...

He stomped off to the next hole. It took the next three to get him cooled down. I did my best to take at least 2 more strokes than he to make the putts. And the conversation ended up in the arena of sports. He explained that his competitive edge never left him from his wrestling days in high school. He didn't wrestle himself, of course, but even as a manager (water boy) you're a part of the team.

At the 15th hole; tragedy strikes--I get another hole in one. This time he throws down his club and stalks off to sit behind the mini-haunted house on hole 13. I stand staring in awe at the scene that had just unfolded. Before I could figure out a reaction, he came lurching back over.

"We're skipping to the last hole. I'm starving and I'll pass out if I have low blood sugar."

I stroll after him to the final hole. The classic clown face with multiple holes through the center of his head, each hole a different prize. O'Connor is determined to win a free game.

I line up, take my shot, and only manage to get it in the lowest hole--no prize for that one. He laughs in my face-literally. Then for the next five minutes he lines up his shot, perfecting angles, taking practice swings. He shoots...he lands in the same fuckin' hole I did. Upon witnessing his ball disappear into the clown's laughing mouth, O'Connor went totally Rumplestiltzkin. He barged into the shop and demanded he be refunded his money. Threw his club on the ground, folded his arms, and called Chuckles the counter stooge a criminal. Chuckles couldn't refund his money, but gave him a handful of game tokens. Which O'Connor picked up and threw on the ground. Informing me he'd meet me at the car.

I followed him out realizing this night was only half over.

Now at this point you might be thinking, why not call it a night here? Why go to dinner with this crooked creep? Maybe it was morbid fascination--how could it get worse? Maybe it was my own fear of being accused of shallowness. Maybe I was just hungry and thought I at least deserved a free meal outta this circus.

I took him to a little italian place on 4th street that I loved. We sat down and I ordered a glass of chianti.

"No alcohol for me. It causes brain damage."

If I'm lucky...

"I'll take a 7Up with a straw please, NO ice."

O'Connor then proceeded to drink not 2, not 3 but 5 glasses of 7Up with no ice. I'm sure of the number, because he asked our server not to take his empty glasses away so he could keep track of how many he had.

Throughout dinner most of the conversation came rambling out of his pie hole, when he wasn't sucking down sodas or slurping up spaghetti, that is. And what was he so enthusiastic about discussing? His mother.

"I haven't moved out yet because I feel like my mom still really needs me at home. She took it very hard when my dad left."

Wow, that is hard, I'm sorry.

"Yeah, it's been a rough 15 years. She has her good days and bad."

Check please.

When I come back from the bathroom he's totaled out the check with exactly what he owes--to the penny. He's on his phone with--you guessed it! his mom. I take the check to the front to put it on my credit card. As we get in my car he mentions his apologizes for being on the phone like that, but he wanted to make sure it would be ok with his mom if I stayed with him when I came to visit.

"So do you think you could come up on Wednesday or Friday this week?"

Uhhh....I...don't think.....this is really going to go anywhere. I'm sorry, O'Connor.

"Oh. Well that's fine. I'm not very sexually attracted to you anyway."

Aaaaaand scene.

The rest of the car ride back to my apartment was silent. I parked and we both got out. I said goodnight with a wave and walked toward the gate.

"Wait...Can I at least get a hug?"

Well I'm not heartless for crissake. I lean in for a quick shoulder squeeze and the squirrely bastard was a flurry of hands and tongue. I shoved him off and took a few steps back. I stared a moment in disbelief.

Really?--It was all I could think to say. Not "sexually attracted" to me, eh?

He turned back to his car, got in, and drove away.

And thus was born the story of the Red Headed with Scoliosis. To be followed by many more blind dates of insanity. You'd think with that kind of experience so soon out the gate, I'd be wary of internet courting. But I'm a die hard romantic or, in other words, a glutton for punishment. So let's see what you've got Match.com. I'll give you 6 months and $120 of my well earned, painfully toiled money--let's see what you can do.

* Ultimate First Date

"Female Expiration" Date

This being the first posting, you'd think I'd do some kind of introductory spiel with a back story explanation. But I'm far too impatient and impractical for that kinda bull shit. All you need to know is I'm 28, single, female, mostly straight, and I live in the worst city for dating: Los Angeles, CA.

I just returned from my first ever trip to New York City. I'd planned this big apple rendezvous for months. I'd gotten tips from gobs of friends and acquaintances (b/c when people hear you're going to NY for the first time, even if they've never met you, they ALWAYS have an opinion on what you should do/see/eat). In fact, I had so many suggestions and only 3 days to explore, that by the time I sat down on my Virgin American flight from LAX to JFK I'd decided to just let the wind blow me in whatever direction it saw fit.

I'd never flown Virgin America before, but if you ever have, you know that it is the future of airline travel. From the purple lighting to the young pink haired hipster flight crew, from the gently sarcastic safety demonstration video to the personal entertainment touch screens in the back of every headrest--it's fucking rad. It was during my audible awe over the portable game console located in the armrest that the gal sitting next to me giggled. We started chatting about the luxurious luxury of Virgin America and then fashion, careers, and finally: romance. She's my age, similar fashion savvy, political opinion, and education but SHE has a lucrative job in advertising which sucks up 10-12 hours of her day 6 days a week. She falls into that category of our generation I like to call "careerotic". So much of her existence is tied up in her career aspirations that she doesn't have time to find a mate. On top of her lack of time keeping her love life elusive is her quality status. A woman like her is hard to match in this day in age. She's smart, successful, and sassy: an S³. Men who can handle women of this caliber are usually in their late thirties to early forties, and men who desire women of this caliber are usually in their fifties--we're talkin' in the metropolitan areas here, people. Not Smalltown, USA. But for many S³ gals on the cusp of 30, a man 8 to 10 years our senior is ready for a different stage of life. They're thinking about babies and houses in the burbs, while we're fantasizing about spontaneous weekend get-a-ways and planning a European adventure.

So there we were, commiserating over this romantic conundrum of TIMING. It's such a delicate balance trying to "have it all". Career, love, success, and a family--they are all high maintenance mistresses asking for an increase in their credit limits. In my new plane friend's case, she was pushing so hard for career success because the opportunity was there, and the advertising business has a definite expiration date. Gotta strike while you're young enough to lift the axe and still show a little leg. But if you want to have a family while you're still young enough to see your kids out of diapers before you have to start wearing them yourself, you're looking at yet another expiration date. Female expiration dates are much less forgiving then male ones, as we all know from watching any local news broadcast anchor team. So we're battling against time tooth and nail, while our male counterparts are stumbling around recklessly waiting to bump into 30. What's the answer to pairing up then? eHarmony? Match.com? For some, yes. For others, no. For me...well, I hope the stories of my Dating Disasters, that are to follow, will help others find the strength to tarry on their romantic battles.