Thanks for seein' about a girl, friend. here's where I'm writing my own history—for you, for me and anyone else who needs to laugh to keep from cryin' every once in awhile.

Of Duds and Men

The Preface

Look. I don't date.

Often.

Well.

Ever.

However you wanna cut it, the fact is I've never been that girl who gave it much (or any) thought. Finding my soul mate, etc. has never been my Holy Grail. It's lodged too far behind finding other things: a job I don't despise, the tastiest ice cream sandwich, one of my 17 chap sticks, best sneakers for my fallen arches, parking spaces, a friggin' tennis partner, helpful bras, self.

But of course I haven't watched Bridget Jones's Diary umpteen times for nothing. I realize that at thirty-two and ever the singleton, I'm starting to check myself for those fish scales when the steady stream of plus-one invitations start rolling in. It's one of those outside pressures--the tune of "One of These Things Is Not Like the Other" plays a li'l Tell Tale Heart-ish in my ears. Meanwhile, for the most part I'm blissfully unaware that my singleness might inconvenience seating charts or cause people to mentally Rolodex their dude files for potential prospects. I'm pretty happy and busy hustling just being me.

As my Gran used to say, "There's a lid for every pot." Sometimes we would laugh when reviewing various pot/lid pairings--like, Lawd, how'd those two ever find one another? But most of the time I believed her when she (not-so-lucky in love herself) would tell me that I'll find my lid once I get to cookin'. I appreciate that. It feels right to me.

Still, after several reputable, dear, dear friends chided, encouraged, testified and cajoled me to give the online dating perusal a try, I one night found myself one sheet too far to the wind and suddenly I had a profile.

Please know there's never been a more ambivalent online dating presence than mine. Granted, my profile was solid. I wasn't half-assed about that (I mean, really, how could I be? I'm inherently stellar, but I digress), but otherwise, I just could. not. be bothered with all the scrolling and messaging of folk. It felt like I needed to wear lucite heels and chew gum raunchily while sitting at my desk. And of course, of course, most of the messages I received made me wonder if I actually did have a rack full of lucite heels in my closet. It's hard out here for a pimp, hell! Chirren, please.

Hindsight being what it is, I didn't do it for the right reasons. I was more curious than interested, but that's for the epilogue of this epic (return) post.

Anyway, I've got myself a solid cadre of girlfriends who've met their menfolk online. In addition to being girlfriends I adore, I now have the added, blessed bonuses of sincerely adoring their husbands. Genuinely. Wholly. I'll continue to keep these success stories filed in the "Seriously. It's possible" file. I promise.

In the meantime ...

See, What Had Happened Was ...

For months I'd been getting the randomest of e-mails--mostly from crazy bums, but a few actually amounted to fun, witty exchanges. Y'all know I loves the repartee! However, NONE of the banter manifested into actual dates--schedules kept falling through, interest was lost, I'd assumed your role as the Black Ice Queen, etc.

However, there was one guy who proved to be quite persistent with the e-mails. I was never particularly interested in any of his photos, but he was interested in mine (I know. Duh.). I also know--like Oprah knows for sure know--that I am the sometimiest person ever. I gets me moods from me pappy; it cannot be helped. Thus, knowing how stubborn, ambivalent, downright clueless I can be, I had to give it to the guy--persistence counts.

So the first couple of e-mails were cool-ish. He basically just asked me deeper questions about stuff on my profile--ecelectic music tastes, recent movies I'd seen, places I've been and wanted to go. I asked him the same and more; he kinda sorta answered all of them, but I chalked it up to e-awkwardness.

Neither of us were fans of talking on the phone so we avoided that, BUT I proposed meeting earlier on because you just need to meet a person to get a better sense of how cool they are or aren't. For whatever reason, it didn't happen until a few Sundays ago. In the meantime, he developed a rather annoying pattern of sending me one-line e-mails every week or so.

Like, seriously (each line below represents ONE WHOLE e-mail):

  • HI!
  • I thought about you the other day.
  • Are you always this elusive?
  • Hope you're doing well.
  • Lol, Hello? lol
  • So ... HEY

I responded to one of the Hey ones with "Hey. How are you?" And I got a scathing reply tombout, "I send you all these e-mails and you can't even bother with more than "Hey. How are you?" Are you kidding me?"

To which I replied, quite snarkily, that "Hey" hardly constitutes a conversation, let alone a conversation starter. I also told him how disinterested I was in his rather paltry e-mail responses--I'm writing paragraphs and he's replying by interspersing one or two words in the midst of my initial e-mail. 'Tis lazy.

But he STILL kept e-mailing. So I gave it one last shot--because let's face it, I have a mean inner critic, and I have built up a rather substantial fortress relationship-wise that I recognize needs to come down at some point. I can't always say no. Some people need a chance. So that was about the time that I proposed we meet at a record store--since we both had record collecting listed in our profiles.

I thought it'd be a FUN, easier way to get to know someone, and maybe we could grab coffee or lunch afterwards. Okay. Coffee. Just a couple of hours on a Saturday afternoon. This suggestion was offered several times over the course of said month and it went nowhere.

A week afterwards he started with the one-liners again. I replied nicely, but really I was already at a loss. I could not imagine anyone could still be interested in me after such a sporadic interlude. I threw out the record shop idea one last time and you know what he came up with?!

"Let's meet at Barnes & Noble in Rittenhouse Square."

I banged my head on my desk. I'm pretty sure I did.

a) because I couldn't imagine what the heck one would do when meeting someone for the first time at a bookstore ... where it's mostly quiet ... like, this just seemed like the dumbest thing ever, but I let that slide.

b) I banged my head because Rittenhouse Square is in the HEART of center city Philadelphia. On the prettiest day ever. Multiply typical overcrowding by 100 TIMES.

But I went.

I almost bailed 12 times, but I went ...

Danita Goes On a Date

(Meanwhile Mama Mags is All a-Sniggerin' with Equal Parts "By George I Think She's Done It," Bemusement, Law & Order Don't Kill My Baby Fear and a General Disdain for Online Gentlemen Callers of the Negro Variety)

NOTE:  I use the word "date" in the loosest way imaginable. And by loose I mean anti-Debbie Does Dallas loose. Actually, I should probably call it the Coffee Lost-Moment-in-Time-I-Will-Never-Reclaim.

Yo.

This was the single biggest waste of my time since watching Melancholia (which, according to Mags, gave her the same slit-wrists-with-a-dull-razor feeling as Tree of Life).

I almost flaked 3 times. Something just kept nagging at me telling me it wasn't worth it, but I chalked that up to being my evil inner critic, so I went.

I texted guy at around 1:45 to let him know I was heading into the city (which only took me 20 minutes), and that given the beauty of the day and the fact that he repeatedly insisted on B&N at friggin' Rittenhouse Square, that my prospects for finding a parking space were going to be nil; therefore, please be advised that there could be a delay in our 2:30 meeting.

He said that was fine.

At 2:28 I received the first, "Are you here yet?" text.

At 2:31 I received the first, "Are you here yet?" phone call.

These two things irked me to such a degree that I seriously considered driving away altogether.

At 2:33 I received the second text: "I'm upstairs in SBUX."

At 2:35 I pick up the phone nearly exasperated by the apparent hounding: "Hi. Can't talk on the phone because I'm driving and it's against the law, but I've just found a parking space and I'll be there in 5. Apologies."

"Oh. Okay."

Initial impressions after hearing his ho-hum, Eeyore-ish voice were:

1. Jesus H. Christ. What a needy em-effer. (Now this could 99% be attributed to my ongoing road rage issues, but honestly ...)

2. Well you certainly seem eager through one's use of the phone, but not so much whilst on it.

2.a. Maybe that lackadaisical tone was just fear that I was going to bail.

2.b. Be nice, Danita.

I parked. I walked briskly and breezily and entered the B&N. Proceeded directly to cafe to get beverage, because I was not even fidna be remotely interested in the mega awk of sitting across from a stranger in a cafe.

I played "I Spy" while I waited in line (partially shielded by an oh-so-beautifully placed column). I had forgotten to look at his profile again, so I didn't really remember what he looked like, although he was fairly easy to spot because he was this rather morose looking creature who kept scanning the perimeter like an orphan every 10 seconds.

I got my drink and approached the table with a smile, apologizing for being late. I was sincere! I extended my hand, but he kept both of his resting on his e-machine (yes, I'm judging). I got a raised eyebrow to which I replied, "What? I look like I do in my profile pics, right? Am I not what you expected?"

I then got a smile that was part Louis Armstrong (in that it was quite broad and toothy), part Cheshire Cat (because the eyebrow was still raised).

Bygones, I told myself. Let's just get this crackin', because I've only got 45 minutes left on that meter and I don't do Parking Wars.

What followed was the most tired conversation I've ever had in my entire 32 years of living. Honest.

I'd rather have heard someone breathing over the phone circa junior high than to endure anything like that ever again.

Ever.

I asked how he was doing, it's a beautiful day to stroll around the park (as a clear hint that I'd rather be anywhere than chained to that table), what had he been up to that day, and all I got was:

SIIIIIIGH, I'm okay. Can't complain. Yeah it is nice outside, but it's nice in here, too. I like coming here.

So, tell me what you do.

Oh, I work 2 jobs, but I'm about to get rid of them and get just one job.

Doing what?

I'm exploring my options. I don't think either of those jobs would really be what I'd want as a career.

Duly noted to self: No, I should hope not. A) because you don't seem remotely interested in either of them. B) because you're almost 40 and frankly I'm a little concerned about this blasé, blasé approach to the word "career" and the types of positions which constitute one.

So do you live near here?

Not really. I'm thinking about moving back to Maryland actually, unless there was something that would make me stay [insert eyebrow and grin].

Stone-faced: well I guess that would depend on what job you found, most likely, no?

Then more awkward silence until he decided to say that I was not talking enough.

($%^&*)*&^????!!!!)

You're not really giving me much to talk about. I'm not just going to sit here and ramble endlessly when I don't know what you want me to say. That's silly.

Well, you seem like you're outgoing. I don't want this to be like an interview or anything.

Well it is an interview, if we're being honest. You've got me sitting at this table with nothing between us--no books to pique my interest, no talking points really--and clearly there are things you want to know so why not just ask them already? I can't guess.

There are things I'd like to know, but I'm not trying to ask everything at once.

Cue me slurping loudly on empty cup. Bored. Epically so. Try again to jumpstart convo by inquiring about records. Get molasses-laden drivel about how he's sort of over record collecting; already has 30 crates too many; besides they're in MD with his ex; shrugs. Stares at me expectantly.

So, you said you like to travel. Have you been anywhere interesting lately? Any family to visit?

No, not really. My dad lives [wherever], but I haven't been there in years. I was in Vegas last year. It wasn't that great, but I was with my ex. I'm turning 40 this year.

Well that's a milestone! (I even added in the enthusiasm as displayed by !)

Yeah. I guess. I might go to San Francisco, buy a big steak, a bottle of champagne and smoke a cigar to celebrate.

Sounds like a worthy celebration. Why SF?

Oh, it's a beautiful city. And it's just ... it's just ...

Beautiful? (Sarcasm HEAVY, but I do not care and he does not seem to notice.)

Yeah. It really is. You should check it out one day.

Oh I've been to SF. Several times in fact. It's a great town.

He then sighs and exhales

straight

into

the

direction

that is my face.

With insufficient mouth coverage.

Not only am I appalled at the fact that he yawned in my face, as if I'm boring him, but his breath was STANK.

I'm talking old man stank. Like imagining Li'l Wayne's metallic-strapped teefus at aged 60 stank.

Speaking of old man, now's a great time to transition to his appearance.

So, he said he was 39. He looked more like a 59. Like the lines in his face and bags around his eyes are DEEP. Like as deep as my dad's--and Pops is 65.

So I was a li'l erm about all that. Granted, he could've had a hard life, but whoa. He completed the world-weary look by wearing old stonewashed jeans (also heavily reminiscent of my dad), an oversized, slightly overstretched green sweater and a green down vest. It wasn't that cool out, but you know, I saw that vest and was like, he's an old man. Already experiencing undue chills and such. No.

He also wore a tweed flatcap, like an Englishman walking through the country. I was willing to give him bonus points for that, what with me being an Anglophile and all, but then he didn't really seem to know what the BBC was, and worse, why it is awesome.

That's not a prerequisite. It's not in my profile that one must love the BBC. One doesn't need to love everything that I love; I don't want that. What I do want, however, and I don't think it's too much to ask, is that one at least know what the BBC, um, is. Like, you don't have to know that they do shows, but maybe you know that they have a news broadcast or that they're the NBC of England ... sumpin'. But he asked me what movies I'd watched recently, and I said:

Oh, I just finished watching Zen a BBC miniseries and I enjoyed it very much.

There went that dumbfounded eyebrow again. What's that?

Zen is about a police detective solving murder mysteries; it's set in Rome.

Oh, so you like watching foreign stuff?

It wasn't foreign; it's the BBC so it's in English; however, it was set in Rome, so you get that flourish of Italian culture and such. It was fast-paced, with a lot of wordplay and intrigue.

Blank stare.

Crickets.

Oh. Okay. Huh. So have you seen anything else worth watching?

Like what?

I don't know. Anything current? Mainstream? Think Like a Man maybe? That's out right now.

No, I haven't seen that. I'm just going to wait for that to come out on Netflix.

Oh.

There was about twenty minutes more of conversations like those. Dead ends one after another. I was starting to feel like that cray mom who got lost in the corn field in MA and just flailed and panicked and called 911.

Game Ovah.

His energy was just awful, and I tried a few times throughout to be more bubbly. I asked, not a lot, but enough questions to generate a conversation, and they weren't open ended, but I got close-ended responses. And I just didn't like how he thought that by asking me there, that alone showed he was interested and I was supposed to do all of the work to make the outing fun or great.

Then he had the nerve to say that he would appreciate it if I would initiate conversation more often and that I never initiate conversations--he always had to e-mail me and then I didn't respond as promptly as he thought I should.

Trix are for kids geezah.

That was the end piece for me. With equal parts politeness and snark I informed him that an e-mail consisting of one line, a la "HI!" or "I thought about you today." aren't conversation starters.

It's apparent that there are things you want to know about me, but you're not asking them. I can't answer what isn't asked. Furthermore, my e-mails are almost always paragraphs while yours are half-sentences or sentences interspersed throughout my emails. Seems lazy, disinterested--which is why it's ironic that you insist on e-mailing every week, because it clearly seems as if you're interested, but you're not willing to explore anything.

Crickets.

Okay, well, it was nice meeting you. I'm going to do some shopping so I can go home and make dinner and get ready for my week. I hope you enjoy this beautiful day and have a good week at work.

Buh.

Bye.

And can you believe he was STILL like, This was nice. I hope we can get together soon and do something maybe that you'd like to do, so you can let me know when and where you'd want to get together.

S(Q#!*&@#($*&A(A*D&)(&@#$!)(#$&!!!!!!!!

Lawd, gimme the Puffy pre-Diddy strempf I need to proceed, strempf I need to beleeb ...

Yeah, well, I don't know, but if you think of something let me know--preferably in an e-mail that consists of more than Hi.

And then I smiled winningly, like the super snarky biznatch I have apparently become.

Then I waltzed into a neighboring section, noticed he was lurking and went to the ladies' room. Came out. Mofo was STILL lurking downstairs by the door, so I packed myself in the mix of a bunch of kids and walked out--in the OPPOSITE direction of where my car was and then zig-zagged through several streets before zooming away.

Foolio.

So that was that. I deleted my profile because that one paltry experience confirmed my insouciance about dating. I don't want anyone to waste my time, so I shouldn't waste someone else's because I'm not interested in becoming someone's caretaker or side piece or wife at this time. To play the numbers game you've gotta make up yo' mind; you've got to light the fire and get things cookin' and honestly right now I couldn't tell you whether I'm a pot or a lid.

I Love the Way You Walk

The Workplace Kitchen