double-booked match.com dates

There comes a time in every woman, well almost every woman’s life, where she must venture into the horror, the gasp, the realm of online dating. Now my go at the match.com happened when I lived in DC. DC where I spent most of my time in an office, in an airplane, or in a bar. It was the hardest place for me to meet anyone, anyone worth dating. Everyone wanted something there but it was more about what you could do for them professionally than within the realm of dating. I decided to take the leap and signed up. There is the difficulty of finding the right photos, the right screen name, and of course writing something highly edited never truthful enough or no one would contact you. You have to seem interesting, but not too interesting, smart but not too smart, funny but not too funny. You get it. It’s like a job interview online where you only tell people good stuff about you.

So the guy’s profile at least in DC had a formula, always pictures of travel, always pictures with kids, always doing something outdoorsy. Because that is what they thought women would wanted. I want someone who I don’t know is emotionally available, I want someone who returns my phone calls, I want someone who shows up when they say they will, I want someone who actually wants to date and not just a romp in the bedroom. Not asking a whole lot one would think. Yes, there were some dudes that had the audacity to put a picture of themselves in speedos rubbed with baby oil over their body- pass-or a guy who posted pictures with other women but blacked out their faces- pass again-, or the guy who could have been my grandpa- pass yet again. I started getting tons of winks (virtual of course) and some emails. I started to realize if you are halfway decent and don’t have an arm growing out of your head you will get attention. Kind of like the men who holler at you on the street since the ripe age of 12.

After some back and forth with some potential suitors, I decided to do something I have never did before. I did it because I could. I am glad I did it now. Because it might have been the only time I had the chance to do it. I double booked dates. Now this might seem worse that it seems, the guys weren’t in the same venue or across the street where I ran back and forth between the dates ferociously. I just booked a date for 6 and a date for 9. Maybe people do this all the time and I am not privy to this info. I booked the 6:00 o’clock date with the guy I didn’t think would be as interesting (some type of marshal artist) and the 9 with the guy who I thought would be (lawyer). So I wore something casual enough that could work at multiple venues, a café and a bar and I was off. Truth be told I thought I might have time, time to head home and change before the second date.

So the first date, let’s call him 6- went surprisingly well over coffee and sandwiches and although he was shy I had him talking to me. Maybe too much because I missed the start of my second date. Shit. Oh shit. So I had to promptly exit without being rude and making sure he knew I wanted to see him again. I was texting in the bathroom, oh shit I actually like this guy. And now I’m late for date# 2. So it ended gracefully enough for me to hail a cab. One of the strange DC cabs that stinks, reeks of cigarettes, booze, and b.o. in a car that was popular in the 70’s or 80’s and sometimes it pulls over to pick up randoms only if they are going the same way. Bizarre I know. One of the many DC quirks.

I am rushing to the date. To only get there before him. Well now I don’t feel nearly as bad. So as the 2nd date, 9 walks in, the date I was actually excited about. He he had seemed interesting and smart. But alas he is short-we can look each other in the eyes easily (note: I’m 5’3 on a good day) and tubby (not a few lbs.. but a little more serious). Now I can do one respectively maybe but both not so much. Note to self: People lie about their heights and their background and doctor photos or use old ones. The good news is as he sits on the stool, I begin to forget, begin to forget the short and tubby part until until he gets off that stool again. Stay on that stool. For some reason we decided to go to a 2nd venue, I am enjoying the conversation. But his compliments are a little too much. Trust me I like compliments but too much too many make feel uneasy as if they aren’t truth. You can’t only be called beautiful so many times in an hour.

So as we sit on our bar stools- because real life is better than fiction, because you can’t anticipate everything- because, because, because-none other than my x-boyfriend is walking up to us. Okay so I double booked date- I had two dates- and now my x-boyfriend is seeing me on my 2nd date. This is amazing beautifully crafted and even a romantic novelist couldn’t make this up. I hope 9 just stays on his stool. He does, because on the stool he doesn’t seem so short. Maybe still tubby. Soon after we left. And the call I got later in the wee hours was not from 6 or 9 but you guessed it my x-boyfriend. This is the truth no one will tell you, once you have moved on, once they have seen you moved on, they will come back, they almost always do. It is somewhat gratifying but it is somewhat like sneaking to see your Christmas presents before the correct morning, it isn’t enough, it feels shockingly empty but still feels good. Maybe oh maybe if he or they would have gotten the memo early. What ifs haunt us all.

I am still glad I did it. The matching I feel in SF it is much easier to do without the assistance of the computer. Match.com didn’t bring me a soulmate. You won’t find me on a commercial telling my story of how it all worked out. But does that matter? But having two dates in one night and running into your x-boyfriend, might just might be priceless.

the rain of it all

That was the time I wanted companionship more than anything. More than being seen as good. Or well behaved or sane. As I laid there on my bed with the pillow behind my head talking on the phone. It was too late. I shouldn’t have answered the call. I find myself getting out of bed, not even bothering to put on proper clothes, shoes on with my pajamas of leggings, t-shirt, my glasses I place upon my face. I walk outside to an empty street.

The drizzle has became a constant stream of water. I feel myself walk towards my car and beep it once and twice. I am sitting in the drivers seat and the reflection along the street from the rain and the lights is shone into my eyes. I am breaking my own rules. It is as if I am watching from above. Like I have no choice in the matter. Like rational reasoning self-talk doesn’t matter but the instinctual biological need to be held does. To be held by someone who loves or loved you for that matter. The drive I feel present yet distanced from myself. My heart races a bit but not too much.

I am walking now. Towards the door. The big red door taller than most as the rain falls on my head. My body. The puddles underneath my feet. The door opens and there he stands. Waiting for me in the rain. The rain of it all. No words exchanged because we already know. We have always known. I don’t care if it is wrong. Because it feels right.

The comfort of his arms around me as I sleep or try to. I look at him as he sleeps. He looks happier more at ease. I wish I could box that and keep it. My hand on his chest. I feel his heart beat and move my hand like the ocean tides in and out in and out in and out. His pulse throbs in his throat I watch it transfixed it is as if I have never seen a pulse before. I can’t sleep. The thought of companionship. Real companionship without the disappointment is what I want more than anything.

breaking toilets on birthdays

One of my favorite stories for one of my closest friends to tell is how I broke a toilet. It is true, there is a part of me that likes to hear her tell it. So I broke a toilet. On my birthday. Not years ago when I was young and stupid but last year to be exact. Now it wasn’t what you envision for the typical toilet breaking one might find themselves in, no mine is different. Mine is special.

So this is how I happen to break a toilet on my 31^st birthday. Every birthday I choose a different venue a bar with dancing- a house with alcohol and the possibility of dancing and that is where I usually get into a host of trouble which can include a) making out with random boys maybe in pizza line maybe not b) arm wrestling a dude and actually winning c) throwing up and returning to the party d) my nose v. asphalt fight e) usually a lot of fun. Always e, always e. So my last birthday, I found my way to the make out room. I partook in many things that night mostly some very possible deal breakers shot of tequila, a few margaritas, a few okay a lot more beers. The thing is on your birthday before you are done with one drink there is another in your hand. It’s like magic. But the kind that will hurt the next day. Still there is this momentum of it. I have the alcoholic bones so those think go down more quickly that I would like to admit. Next thing I know the lights are on and we are out the door.

Walking not very quickly, walking not very straight, but walking nonetheless. So after we-me and the friend the storyteller (R)-decided to hail a cab for some dudes who were bothering us. There are tons of inequalities in the world that favor men over ladies but hailing cabs, hailing cabs, sorry fellas that is our domain. So we hail the cab to ditch the guys and decide we will walk home. Walk home. We get into conversations on the way. With randoms. With each other. We turn onto Dolores. And I see a toilet. We see a toilet. Toilet standing alone. Alone on the sidewalk. In front of a fancy Victorian that you dream you might get invited to.

It seems like the best idea in the world to pretend to use the toilet. That is what R thought. But me I was going for the gold- I thought it would be funny to actually pee in the toilet. A thought that would only make sense to a drunken birthday girl at 3 am. Yes it made sense then, now it doesn’t of course. I have a laundry list of drunken ideas that I thought would rival Bill Gates genius only to learn later not so much. So down come the panties pulled around and down my legs. R is pulling out her camera to take a picture not knowing how far I am going to take it. I am taking it too far. I am squatting and the moment I am about to sit. The crash. Crashing down at 3 am in a silent dead very nice neighborhood. I am running. She is running. I am trying to pull up my panties while sprinting at a shameful miserable pace. I used to be a sprinter but never drunk did I run. We are laughing. I look back, we look back to see the toilet in a million pieces. Million pieces on Dolores. I just turned 31 and I am disturbing the neighbors because I broke a toilet, a freestanding toilet on the sidewalk. We laugh all the way home and every time she tells the story. It’s not everyday it’s your birthday. It’s not everyday you break a toilet.

since it's my b-day, i'm taking the day off

but stay tuned for more fun and embarrassing and cry your eyes out kind of material coming your way. Including:

breaking toilets on birthdays
don't call me baby, call me snowflake
double booked match.com dates

I am so very thankful and touched by the support I have received thus far. Please keep reading and pass along to anyone who is up for the baring your soul kind of writing. My writing teacher told me you know you are doing something right when people get mad at you or tell you not to write or blog about them or something they are about to say. This now has happened more than once. Good or bad news- still not sure- but I'm still writing and hope you will keep reading.

no words for this one

wiping the chalk from the asphalt

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

hairy thing

When you are fifteen or sixteen at family gatherings you want to blend in, you don’t want anyone to really notice you unless, unless they are paying you compliments. Telling you how great you are-not the life decisions you should be making or discussing politics. Actually I like to blend in still, but I usually fail miserably at this.

So I am sitting there among my aunts, uncles, my grandparents, my dad, my stepmom and my brother, my brother, we are eating, eating. I begin to hear a little voice say, Kate has a hairy thing. Very faintly at first. I look around, looking into eyes of those around me, to see if they have heard, heard those words. Looking for slight recognition. He says it again, Kate has a hairy thing. Of course, it’s my brother. Please make him stop. I’m willing him to stop, he keeps going. Kate has a hairy thing, louder now, louder now. I am sure I’m not the only who can hear him. Oh shit. He needs to shut up. I look over and see him, his freckles painted on his face, his blue eyes big like chucky, his eyelashes I’m still jealous of but he still is cute of course. His head has curls of hair. He has a glint in his eye. He knows what he is doing. The only thing more important to him other then ninga turtles and chicken nuggets is making my life miserable. My life miserable.

He says it again, Kate has a hairy thing- louder, almost yelling. Everyone is looking at him, looking at me. I am turning red- the irish coming out. I want to die. I really do. How do you explain why your younger brother saw you naked? It is not a shock that puberty has paid me a visit but I don’t want my family members provided a memo, a memo with the details. Kate doesn't just have pubic hair, but a hairy thing. Kate has a hairy thing. No one is talking, no one is responding. It has to stop. I’m trying to will, hope, plead, anything for it to stop. I am thinking of what to say. T jumped out of my closet when I was changing after the shower. Trying to explain this away. But there is no explaining. I see out of the corner of my eye- my stepmom grab, grab my brother’s hand and drag him, drag him away from the table.

Our nice family table. Ruined. I didn’t know what happened but T returned and his face now was glowing red. Glowing red and his mouth everflowing, now silent. Silent. I didn’t know what had happened but I was thankful. That it was over. Over. The strange thing is I don’t remember anyone talking about what had happened it was just business as usual. Food to fork to mouth. Repeat. Napkin to mouth. Talking and more talking. Repeat.

On the drive home, I found out that my step-mom had saved the day when she grabbed him, grabbed him away from the table and told him if he didn’t stop, he didn’t stop saying what he was saying that she would tell everyone, everyone at the table he had skid marks in his underwear. Skid marks in his underwear. Who knows if he even had them? I didn’t care. It shut him up. That was enough for him to stop- at least long enough for today. At least for today.