• I’m setting up a friend with a couple guys–one of whom I’m introducing her to tonight. Fingers crossed!
• Pretty boy’s girlfriend is apparently moving cross-country for him. And to think just 2.5 months ago he was making me look like a fool at my own party.
• Dr. Drunken Zone-of-Pain is apparently engaged, according to a friend of mine who works at the same hospital.
• …and in a few short days, I’ll be off to a week-long B&B vacation with J  <3

A guy I dated for a couple weeks last year just sent me this endearing message:

I had a naughty dream about u the other night – thought u might want to know haha : )

Just another reminder how very lucky I am to be with J, who is too good to be true, yet continues to exist nonetheless. My black swan!

Well, it looks like my blog may go on hiatus.

I’m not the most self-aware of people, so it took me a while to realize that I was falling for my friend. Classic case of the self-absorbed girl finally realizing how special her guy friend is–the very guy who listens to her bitching about other men with a level of patience and compassion she doesn’t merit.

But my thick skull notwithstanding, I finally realized what I was missing. He’s got the life skills of a grown-up but the playful enthusiasm of a child. He’s got the social savvy of an extrovert but the easy companionship of an introvert. He’s got a scathing sense of humor but a deeply kind heart. He’s got a technical bent but the ability to use words like “schadenfreude” without missing a beat. And as if a caricature of the perfect man, in the past day alone he’s brought flowers, killed a spider, done the dishes, and invited me to meet the fam.

I crinkled my nose and grimaced a little. “You’re better than I deserve,” I admitted.

“Yeah,” he intoned gravely.

As I anxiously turned to meet his eyes,  his deep, joyous laugh filled the room.

At a doctor’s appointment the other day, my doctor remarked, “Wow, what happened to your knee?”

“Wow, yeah,” the nurse chimed in.

“Oh, I fell during a date at a tapas bar,” I explained.

“Did your date notice?”

“Thankfully, no.”

“He was probably looking at the other stuff that was going on,” the nurse nodded.

“The other stuff that was going on? What do you mean?”

“Well, you *were* at a topless bar.”

Here’s an outline of some guy’s email to me:

• “I don’t see anything particularly useful, novel, or challenging about [your perspective on the world].”
• The author of one of your favorite books is  “an overeducated windbag whose columns have to be counted among the most tepidly prosaic work the New York Times has ever printed.”
• One of your favorite movies “isn’t half as clever as it’s assumed to be.”
• Another favorite author, Vonnegut, “didn’t do anything in Slaughterhouse V that Joseph Heller didn’t do backwards, forwards and sideways six times better in Catch-22.
• “Still…I’m probably one of a very few people you’re likely to encounter who can actually keep up with you.”

For added irony, his profile says he’s looking for a girl who exhibits “self-awareness.”

<3

Some dude writes:

OK so I know [this] is a dating site and there is absolutely no way to know if we would really hit it off or even get along as friends for more than a half hour but the thing is I really find your taste and smell and touch and mind very – appealing. In my imagination, of course, since you don’t really exist yet, corporeally, at least not in the verifiable psycho-sexual sense, where I would have to deal with your childhood trauma and your need for security….

Oh shit, there I go again. No wonder I don’t have a girlfriend.

I also think you are much less ugly than the other women on this site. In fact I’ve dated women that are 10 times uglier than you.

Therefore I want to walk with you through the threshold of a mysterious small town junk store where we hunt for old rusty tools, carnival attractions, bones crutches and bugs, ancient musical instruments, old science equipment, Confederate money, National Geographics, mechanical store displays with one working arm and one broken…

not the frou-frou kind of place owned by a nice little old lady with well-lit aisles and walls hung with doilies and framed quilt pictures and shelves full of tea sets and tchotchkes and stacks of odd china pieces carefully culled from the attics and pantries of rural back roads WWII-era homes to be an exemplary lesson on how to go through life with no scratches or chips or even visible paint-fading on the side facing the living-room window for 30 years. I’m talking about the kind of river-dank and gloomy store run by a perilously cranky old guy who acquires stuff off farmers and hobos and outsider artists and retired machinists with one finger missing. A man who won’t let you buy something if he doesn’t like you, and he usually doesn’t unless you are nearly as demented as he is, and you aren’t and it’s a good thing too.

Please consider meeting me for lunch, next time you are in SF instead of just in my mind.

Ever do any acting? I’d love to hear you sing and watch you dance. Even if you are terrible… oh, before I forget, please consider checking out my art. Then fall in love with me. It’s on the link below. I already think you are amazing. Totally amazing.

Sorry if I left some things out. Skipped a few steps… I do that. You’ll forgive me eventually, since you are amazing.

xo
Frank

Ugh.

So yesterday was pretty painful. I decided to try speed dating again.

First I show up, and everyone’s full name is on the nametags. This. Is. Not. OK.

Then I skim the list of attendees and see the name of stomach flu guy. This is a good opportunity to use my new favorite curse: FUCK ME. I briefly consider leaving, but decide to stick it out.

Stomach flu guy arrives wearing a Tony the Tiger shirt that is rendered in Japanese and tucked into his jeans. He comes over and hugs me. Oy.

Finally, the dates begin.

My first date sits down and I warmly say, “Hey, we have practically the same first name, and your last name is actually my Grandmother’s last name! I feel like I already know you!”

“You do.”

This is going nowhere good.

He says we have a mutual friend, A. It all comes back to me: this guy had messaged me on a dating site and I wasn’t interested. Usually I’d just ignore such a message, but he had actually addressed me by name, said that A. had recommended me, and written a good three or four paragraphs–so I didn’t feel like I could ignore him without it coming back to haunt me. Gritting my teeth, I had written a short but friendly response in which I answered his questions, made a few comments, and then explained that for better or for worse, I have a thing for lanky guys and I didn’t want to waste his time.

Although the back story is awful, our few minutes together seem to go pretty well.

Soon after, I have my date with stomach flu guy. He says that he’s been rejected by about a third of the girls in the room, so he’s used to it. At the end, he says he’d be interested in getting together if I’m interested. I nod.

A few minutes later, there’s a 20-minute break. I flee to the bathroom. Then, as I start to return to the group, I realize I’m not ready to deal with more awkward interactions. I intercept a girl I befriended at the outset and walk her to the bathroom for a second visit. En route, she says one of her dates has confided in her that he had a terrible JDate experience. I perk up and say, “Oh really? What?” She proceeds to tell me that some girl had the nerve to him that he was “too fat for her to date.” I quickly realize that although he’s misremembering the dating site, that bitch from JDate is actually…me.

Well, fuck me again.

I return to my table and ask Deborah, a new friend of mine, what she thought of a particular guy. Does he also strike her as entertaining but perhaps not mentally healthy? “Funny you should bring him up,” Deborah replies. “He wanted me to watch out for you. He said you seemed deeply sad.”

O-kay…

The rest of the night, at least, is easy by comparison.

One date tells off the event coordinator, who seems to know he’s crazy and patiently weathers the storm. Very attractive.

Another date says he is looking for a woman who would blow his … dramatic pause … mind. He goes on to explain that his ideal woman would laugh at this joke. (Needless to say, I’m not his ideal woman.) Then he asks where I went to school and tells me he had gone there, too. “No, you didn’t,” I reply coolly. He then demands to know how I knew he was lying.