20 dates in 20 weekends: A Social Experiment

One-Hundred Per Cent

2009-08-09T15:14:00.000-07:00

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Date #20: Not a Moment Too Soon

2009-07-31T20:43:00.000-07:00

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Date #19: Vegan Manner

2009-07-25T20:47:00.000-07:00

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Date #18: Why Didn't I Leave the Building?

2009-07-18T14:34:00.000-07:00

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Date #17: So Close I Can Taste It

2009-07-11T22:42:00.000-07:00

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Seventy Five Per Cent: Intention and Forward Progress

2009-07-04T00:30:00.000-07:00

As I am nearing the end of my dating experiment, an idea keeps being tossed in my general direction and begs to be explored; how intentional are the choices we make when we are choosing someone to date or partner with? This may sound quite like an obvious question, but looking back over my life, I have come to the realization that I mostly chose people who just happened to be attracted to me. As one of my dates recently described it, he ended up dating girls who “fell into his lap” in bars. Very rarely did I stop and think, “Is this person good for me?” No, I basically would find myself so overwhelmed that someone actually liked me or that someone told me I was special, that all reason and deliberation was thrown out the window.

Surveying the last 16 dates I have been out on, I can say, without any doubt in my mind, that this is not the most intelligent way to pick a romantic interest. If I were operating the way I have always operated, I would be dating people I don’t even like, just because they happen to be handy and are willing participants. I also have to wonder why this is such a revelation and if people reading this think I am a complete numbskull for not having realized this sooner. I mean, I am freaking 40 years old for the love of Isis. I am not stupid. Why has it never occurred to me to think about what is best for me?

The reality of this epiphany, of course, is that the dating pool has just gotten much smaller. In fact, I would say it has been diminished by at least two thirds. So then you have the other item up for examination: Do people in general, viewing the depressingly small dating landscape, end up dating out of desperation? Is it wise to be with someone just to avoid being alone? My experience tells me it is much lonelier to feel alone when you are with someone than when you are not. At least when you are alone there is no deliberation over what is for dinner, or what movie to see, or what to do this weekend. There is no argument over who will do the dishes, walk the dog or take the garbage out.

Then comes the next and in my mind, most inevitable of questions, after we have been through so much and sacrificed and worked at relationships that have ended badly, how then do we open ourselves up again to new and exciting experiences, when our tendency is to narrow our possible choices? Assuming that our dating interests over the course of our lives are pyramidal in shape, what happens when we all find ourselves at that teeny tiny point? Do we fall off? Or do we live our lives going from one one-night-stand to another? When I speak with people about this aspect of dating, the same argument is always presented: “I don’t want to grow old and die alone.” Well, both my parents had a myriad of partners over their lifetimes, and all it ever made them, from my perspective, was miserable, the only people there for them when they died were their children, (which makes that no child decision of mine a bit more pertinent), and when you die, you are alone. Additionally, fear-based decisions are often the most fool hardy, the present unpleasantness in Iraq being a shining example of this fact.

There was a point after my parents died and my marriage ended that I was worried I would always end up picking the same kind of people to be in relationships with; those who needed to be the center of my universe and needed me to give up my hopes and dreams in order for me to live my life with theirs. Now, I am worried that I will never want to be in a relationship again because my definitions have changed significantly; that I will not find someone to be with because either he or I are being so choosey that one of us will pass the other up. Is this situation now better or worse than the one I was in before? At this point the question is mute, because there is no going back, but is it what you would call progress?

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Date #16 Inevitably Unintentional Part Two

2009-07-03T21:53:00.001-07:00

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Date #16 Inevitably Unintentional Part One

2009-07-03T21:49:00.000-07:00

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Date #15: Outside the Box

2009-06-28T12:40:00.000-07:00

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The Tangled Webs

2009-06-23T23:52:00.000-07:00

I feel like I will have to learn the same lessons over and over again, painfully, until either death takes me or I have a coma inducing stroke, leaving me in a vegetative state for the rest of my pathetic life. After I emailed Seven, told him about Reginald, and he read my blog, he ended it. Of course, it hurt more than I would ever let on to him or anyone else, because I was too busy acting cavalier about the whole thing. After I sent him the email, he told me he was upset, but did not want to end our relationship. After he read the blog, he ended it, letting me know that it did “not make him feel special”. Pretty ironic, really, when what I had wanted from him was to feel more special, but of course, I had agreed, categorically, to settle for less. I agreed to only see him once a week, I agreed to not want more after it was clear I could not have it, I agreed to settle for less than what I wanted from him. This is why this is my fault entirely.

A few weeks ago, Seven made a comment to me that indicated he was hoping still to meet someone more suited to him. While this is the reality of what used to be our relationship, it hurt me. I could tell that he was upset that it hurt me, so I blew it off and pretended it didn’t matter to me, that I could settle for less and it would be fine.

Then, instead of telling Seven before I had sex with Reggie, I told him after, and let him find out, via blog, that I had in fact had sex with him the entire weekend before I went out on a date with him. The reality here is that while it did not make him feel special to be treated that way, I was acting very much like I was not special.

So, to recap, I hurt someone I cared for very much all because I would not own up to my own feelings of wanting to feel special to someone, and then ended up proving, to him and to myself, that I do not deserve it.

To add insult to injury, John then emailed and told me that he was upset that I had reconsidered my invitation to a second date, felt blindsided by the blog, and let me know that what I thought was a kiss was actually going to be a hug, and that I should not let my ego get the better of me.

Of course, after this, he invited me to read parts of my blog on a radio show he works on, “Livewire”, in July, making me feel even worse, as he was still being nice to me, and of course, I was still the asshole. This is much the same with Seven. He thanked me for the time we had spent together, said he had appreciated it, that he was going to keep my art hung where he and his daughter had placed it together. There is nothing that makes you feel shittier than when the people who you treated badly are big enough to turn around and still be completely decent and kind to you. I find it hysterical that I ended my last blog entry with “everything felt more in order and I, more in control.” Yeah, more in control, sure. At the rate I’m going, I would have to do at least 20 more dates in order to learn this awful lesson. With any luck, this will cause me so much pain that the next time I want someone to be nice to me, I will ask. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

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Date #s 13 & 14: Slightly Intertwined

2009-06-23T19:02:00.000-07:00

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Date #12: Nothing Good Can Ever Come of it

2009-06-14T21:45:00.000-07:00

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The Break

2009-06-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, I had to work all weekend and I couldn't date, and thus, couldn't post. Of course, I did have a date with Seven, but I feel at this point that you people like it much more when I find myself in awkward social situations, so I have lined some up for the next few weekends.

I have been fortunate enough to receive feedback on my blog, so thank you all for that. I am working on a post which will detail my dealings with men I have decided not to date. Or those who, for some insane reason, have decided not to date me.

Oh, and I was also recently told, much to my dismay, that I am someone who is nice to have around until something better comes along. I thought it was supposed to be me who said that.

Date #11: Bush League

2009-05-30T22:04:00.000-07:00

I was to meet Roger at Gino’s in Sellwood; an Italian place that he said was one of his favorites. It was an unseasonably warm Friday evening and I had ridden my bike down from my Naturopath appointment ahead of schedule in order to cool down and change before the date started. Sadly, I had just been told I was gluten intolerant; not the best news to get right before eating at an Italian restaurant. I went to The Ugly Mug, my friend’s café which is down the street from Gino’s. I was hoping to find her there and hang out for a bit, but alas, the lady working the counter told me she was going for a bike ride, so I just ordered an herbal mint iced tea and sat and waited. I am convinced there is a special place in hell reserved for people who only occasionally keep in touch with their good friends, where I am sure I will be, with bells on. She will also be there, of course, as she is just as bad at keeping in touch as I am, though this does not justify my inability to communicate with my friends.

I walked down to Gino’s shortly before it was time to meet Roger. As I walked into the bar of the restaurant and looked around, I realized I had no recollection of who I was looking for. I am bad at looking at my dates’ pictures after the initial “Does he have crazy eyes?” inspection. What I knew about Roger was that he was 50, had two daughters who were in college, owned his own machine shop, his own plane, went skiing a lot, had traveled all over the world, and lived on Lake Oswego. I was starting to realize through my experiences on Craigslist that I am not very comfortable with people who have money. It could be due to the fact that I worked in Lake Oswego at a chocolate café where I experienced a level of obtuse soullessness which whittled away my faith in humanity bit by bit over a period of 24 excruciatingly long months. This already intolerable situation was made worse by the fact that the company was owned by the daughter of Columbia Sportswear Founder Gert Boyle. A piece of advice: if you ever have an opportunity to work for a company owned or run by the son or daughter of a business tycoon, run as far and as fast as you can, screaming, if possible. There are obvious exceptions to this rule, but in general, these people have no idea what it is to work or be a working person, so you could perceivably find yourself in the uncomfortable situation where you are being regaled with stories of new ponies and brand new four story homes on 20 acre lots while you are working your 13th day straight because you need the overtime in order to earn the money for the medical procedure you have to pay for yourself because you have no insurance. While I am not sure this experience alone created my Pavlovian skin crawling reaction to rich people, I know for a fact it didn’t help.

I was standing in the bar of Gino’s looking around for someone who might recognize me, and in walks Roger. He looked like your typical middle aged man: grey hair artfully combed to the side, glasses, slight pot belly, beige Hawaiian shirt with huge beige Hawaiian flowers on it, and, there, growing out of and around his nostrils, mammoth and unruly NOSE HAIRS. I had to stifle the laughter threatening to spring from my belly initially, but the very next second what had been laughter was replaced by a heavy sorrow as I realized I would have to sit across from him and eat while looking at those things. I was definitely not ordering anything with angel hair pasta.

As it was such a beautiful evening, we were seated at a table outside, and he ordered a beer and the Cioppino, and I ordered wine and the salmon. Initially he had suggested that we split the Cioppino, but because it was served on pasta, and because he had huge protruding nose hairs, I could not bring myself to do it. As we talked to each other we both looked away intermittently; me for obvious reasons, and him, well, I can only assume he was put off by the fact that I had not gotten my eyebrows done. Every time I looked at him the words “nose hairs” kept repeating in my head. It was quite a challenge to listen to what he was saying, and our conversation suffered for it. I was giving mostly one word answers and he was doing his best to keep the conversation going. Then our salads came. What I thought was awkward before became horrifying. He was a spit-talker. He asked for cheese to crumble on to his salad, and after he crumbled it on, he ate it, all the while talking to me about the big economic bust that occurred at the beginning of the millennium. I noticed that flecks of cheese where being spit onto my salad as he spoke, so I tried to discreetly move sideways and out of the path of the copious amounts of partially chewed projectiles flying out of his mouth. The table was too small to stay out of the line of fire, so I just started inhaling my salad. Then came the burping; he never actually burped out loud, but was gesturing as if constantly trying to keep one down. I finished my salad in roughly a minute and a half. He noticed and said through cheesy teeth, “you eat fast; you must be hungry from the bike ride.” I could only smile.

Soon after, our meals came, and mine was beautiful. The Salmon was cooked perfectly; medium rare and still a bit pink inside. His Cioppino looked amazing, and he offered me some, but I could not bring myself to do it. Nose hair. By this point the sun had moved to a place in the sky where it was shining directly into his eyes, so he moved across the table from where he was sitting, to my left side and much closer to me, and each time I looked up, the sun’s rays were glistening off the bits of food on his lips and his ever-present and disgusting nose hair. Dinner went quite quickly; by this point it seemed as though neither of us wanted to be there, and after I cleaned my plate, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. It was hot and dark in the restaurant, but I was happy to be away from the table. I went in to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. It was kind of dark in the bathroom, so I got closer to the mirror and saw what turned out to be a tiny piece of partially chewed food on my cheek. I thought it was cheese, but I couldn’t be sure, though I was sure that it was chock full o’ nast. I turned on the cold water full blast and rinsed my face thoroughly before going back out to the table.

When I returned, the ends of my bangs all wet from the cleansing I had just given myself, I found him talking on his iPhone and holding the dessert menu. It sounded like he was making plans with someone, but as I sat down I realized he was talking to someone about the date. The person on the other end must have asked him how his date was going, because he said in a very apathetic voice, “OK”, then told the person on the other end that he would call back “in a minute”. It was somewhat comforting to know that he liked me as little as I liked him. After he hung up he gestured to the dessert menu and asked if I was interested. I told him no, and as I did, the wind blew the menu out of his hands and into the street next to us. He did not get up to get it, but when the waitress came back, he pointed it out to her so that she could do that for him. Yup, classic Lake Oswego. She returned with the check, and I watched as he gave her just over 10% for a tip. Great, I was out with 10% tip guy. In addition to nose hair guy, spit-talking guy, Lake Oswego guy, I was also out with a man I have waited on hundreds of times in my food service career: the guy who gives you 10% and thinks he’s leaving you a great tip. He might in fact even point it out to you to give you the opportunity to express your gratitude. I hate that guy.

At this point, it was pretty obvious we were both dying to get away from each other. We shook hands in front of the restaurant and parted ways. I think this was my shortest date on record with the exception of “Bob Crazy”. This whole tragic experience kept going through my mind, and it got me to wondering, if you are going on a first date, why the hell aren’t you bringing your “A” game? I mean, the guy is 50, seemingly well off, and he doesn’t have grooming implements which he could use to clean his shit up? REALLY?? And why hasn’t anyone told this guy that he spits when he speaks? This type of behavior, the bad tip, the treatment of the waitress, the spit-talking, and the protruding nose hair, is all bush league. This goes back to the idea based in Human Resources philosophy which basically states that if a person is not bringing their “A” game to the interview, what is going to happen when they get the job? Nothing good, I can assure you, and I for one am very glad I will never have to find out.

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FOCUS

2009-05-25T11:53:00.000-07:00

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Fifty Per Cent

2009-05-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

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Date # 10: Half Way Home

2009-05-20T20:19:00.000-07:00

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Date #9: Four or Five Abreast

2009-05-18T21:10:00.000-07:00

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Date #8: Seven and Point Five

2009-05-09T17:59:00.000-07:00

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Gains and Losses

2009-05-07T11:46:00.000-07:00

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Date # 7: Lucky Number Seven

2009-05-06T20:10:00.000-07:00

Date Seven did not start out well. It was the Monday after a weekend where I had dates on both days, and I was a bit tired. I even had brief moments where I thought I might cancel, but I decided not to, as this date would put me closer to my goal. I was supposed to meet Number Seven at 8:30 at the Laurelthirst Pub to listen to music. I figured if I got home from work in enough time, I could take a nap and still have plenty of time to get down there on my bike. Of course, because I had to return a few phone calls, this got postponed. One of the calls I had to return was to Grampa Tom, my date from Saturday. I was calling him to let him know I would not be going to the Mariners game with him the following Monday. The conversation went well until he told me he wanted to ask me something and I might not like it. This guy and his stupid sentence intros. You would think that after a person has lived a bit of a life, they would shake the need to qualify and introduce, but no. He evidently still felt the need to not only inflict pain with a question, but to set me up to feel anxiety beforehand as well. Foolishly, I told him to go ahead and ask. “Do you ever wear make-up?” Oysh. I had not worn make-up on our date because I had ridden my bike downtown, roughly a 14 mile ride, and then supposed that we were going to go kayaking. Neither activity was conducive to make-up wear. I replied that I did, but did not that day for the reasons I just mentioned. He then went into how he had spoken to a friend of his and wondered to her why I hadn’t worn make-up. I added that the way I look without make-up is the way I look, so if he didn’t like it, it might be an issue. He also mentioned that he was surprised that I was so willing to talk about sex. I replied that it was an important part of a relationship and that not talking about it is the dumbest thing you can do, especially if you want to enjoy the sex you might or might not be having eventually. He agreed. After some small talk, the call ended and I was able to take a cat nap before my ride into town.

When I awoke, I felt somewhat groggy, but I knew that the ride would wake me up. As I was dressing, I noticed that it had started raining. Not great news, given the conversation I had just had with gramps. So, I left the house, hoping that it would let up on my way to the pub. It did not. In fact, at some points, the rain poured down on my bike helmet so hard that I considered waiting under an overpass or a tree until it let up. As I live in Portland, Oregon, I knew that I could wait forever for that to happen, so I kept going. About half way there, my right eye started stinging, badly. I kept wiping it, wondering what the hell was going on, then I remembered I had not washed the make-up off of my face that I had worn to work that day before I left on my date. I had to keep it closed most of the time, so there I was, riding my bike at night in the rain with one eye open. Not my proudest moment. Then, as I came within about a mile of my destination, my other eye started stinging. As there was no way I could ride with both eyes closed, I kept stopping and trying to wipe all of the make-up off of my eyes, which was basically impossible. I started to hope that he wouldn’t show up so I could take the Max home and go to bed. It was a Monday anyway, I figured, it didn’t really count either way.

I eventually made it there, on time too, which was pretty much a miracle, and then realized that I would not even know him if I saw him, as the only picture I had was a side pose of him, which I had looked at roughly two weeks before. I was soaking- my hair, feet, face, everything was absolutely and miserably drenched. Then he walked in. Number Seven was handsome, with dark features and broad shoulders. I wished fleetingly that I could hide, but then I decided better of it and took a step toward him. He looked at me, kind of unsure, and then we both introduced ourselves. “Yeah, I got kinda wet”, I said, dripping from every angle. He actually smiled at me and said he was sorry and felt bad that he hadn’t given me a ride, and then he gave me a hug. Now, I am not a hugger. I do not like hugging people I know well, much less someone I am meeting for the first time. I am well known for my “space bubble” that I must have between myself and anyone around me. But when he hugged me, it just felt like such a relief, I actually enjoyed it, and found myself wishing it wasn’t a Monday.

I went to the bathroom to clean up and he ordered us a couple of beers. I wiped all the make-up and mud off of my face and changed into my warm three-layered after-biking get-up: two long underwear shirts and my OCAC hoodie. I had brought a skirt to change into, but I figured that was a bad idea as all I had to wear on my feet was what I had on: a pair of drenched wool socks, my bike shoes and my shoe covers. At least the top half of me would be warm. I tried to dry my hair off under the hand dryer, but the most I could do was dry my bangs, so I got all my stuff together and left the bathroom to look for Number Seven.

I found him in the room next to where the band was playing, going to shut the door so I wouldn’t be cold. There were two beers sitting on a table, so I sat down, and though I felt very awkward, I started talking. It was an easy conversation, and he was really smiley and laughed a lot. He said he was a critical care nurse, a part-time dad, and in his spare time went to a lot of music festivals, drank beer, and made stuff, like a quilt he had made for his bed out of old shirts. Clearly, he was a hippie, but I did not care at all, mostly because I was so distracted by how great his smile was.

I told Seven about some of my dates, what I was trying to do in my research, and how I handled some of the things people said to me. Of course, I was starving from the long and wet bike ride so I ordered a BLT and a cup of chili. He had already eaten, so I devoured my food while we talked. He seemed really interested in my project and what it was like going on so many dates. He had not dated much in the last few years which he thought was due to his height. Sadly, shorter men have a hard time being with taller women. Oh well, more for me.

After a while we went into the room where the band was playing and the people were dancing. He said hi to some of the people at the bar and then we sat and shared a beer. We had to sit very close together so we could hear each other. It was horrible because I could smell him and he smelled so good; like soap and grass and beer. I couldn’t believe it was a fuckin’ Monday- just my luck. I kept looking at him and had to force thoughts of sex with him out of my head so that I could listen to what he was saying. It was awful. After the band stopped playing he offered to drive me home. I was so happy to hear those words, I almost cried as my pants and socks were still soaking and my jacket and gloves were dripping wet.

We gathered our things and headed out to his car. He had a minivan with some huge hula hoops in it. I told him I wanted to see him hula-hoop, so he stood there in the rain on Glisan Avenue, hula hooping. It was hysterical. After we loaded my bike in the car, he told me, “don’t move, stay right there,” and then he kissed me. It was a great kiss. It was so great that I hated it, and started wondering about the wisdom of not counting dates that occurred during the week. We got in his minivan and kept talking. I was so happy to be going home in a car and so happy that this was such a good date, I was completely unconcerned that it was 11:30 on a school night.

We got to my place and he helped me bring my stuff up to my apartment. I was nervous and really excited. I was weighing the pros and cons of having him stay for a while, and decided that if this was to be our only date, I should really make the most of the time I had. It was the best way to end an amazing date, and as I slipped into sleep much later that evening, I thought it made sense that he had been my Lucky Number Seven.
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Date #6: Natives and Aliens

2009-05-02T21:06:00.000-07:00

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Twenty Five Per-cent

2009-04-30T20:27:00.000-07:00

“It is the quality of our interactions which defines our humanity”.
-Desmond Tutu

As an artist, you start a project, thinking you know what you are going to get out of it, or thinking that you know the answers to the questions you are asking. The good projects change your perspective in a way that results in additional questions. As I look back over the handful of dates I have had, the people I have met, my original hypothesis regarding our need to connect and our tendency to distance ourselves from each other with technology has been sidelined. As I have met these men, and I have taken the time to talk to them and get to know them in a short amount of time, I realize more and more that my perspective has been slightly flawed and perhaps oversimplified. I started to see this as I spoke to my friends about my interactions with my dates. The questions regarding how I could handle some of the harsher comments about my beauty, my age, my intelligence, have always yielded the same response: these comments have much less to do with me than they have with the people who have said them. A couple of my friends have tried adamantly to dissuade me from this project, telling me that either there is no good reason to do it, or that it is a part of a thrill-seeking tendency that could end up getting me hurt or killed. While I appreciate the concern, I also believe this is more of the same; a concern that has less to do with me than it has with the person who said it.

After my fifth date, one quarter of the way through my experiment, I realize that the interactions I have considered “good” have been with people who share my world view, and not surprisingly, the others have been with those who have not. The question then becomes, how good is it to surround ourselves with people who are just like us, and how healthy is it for us to marginalize those who are dissimilar from us? On each date I have been on, no matter how different any of these guys have seemed from me, I made it a point to pay attention to them and listen. Of course, they were not operating under this same directive, and at the end of each date I was exhausted because I was not used to this practice. Does this mean that most of the time I am an arrogant bastard who does not listen to my friends when they speak to me, or that I assume I know what will be coming out of their mouths next? Am I surrounding myself with people who are like me because it is easier to get through the day? Do I shy away from putting real effort into my interactions with others?

I have come to the conclusion that while it might not be pleasant, the more I am challenged by conflicting perspectives to my own, the more I examine why I believe the things I do and the more I grow. The young man who wanted to be a cult leader served as a mirror in that his tendencies to control every situation around him brought to light my own tendency to do the same things, on a lesser scale. On the surface he seemed very different from me, but our similarities were what struck me most. After he read the blog I wrote about our date to me over the phone, he asked, “I sound kinda psychotic, don’t I?” The first gentleman I dated sent me an email that stated simply, “I am such an asshole.” I too have been accused of being an asshole, and this is not far from the truth. I am an insensitive, judgmental, irrational woman who is searching for meaning by meeting complete strangers through Craigslist and exposing these experiences publicly on a blog.

Due to a number of major shifts in my personal life, I am searching for meaning in the eyes of strangers. I am looking at people, alone in their cars, and wondering if they are thinking of anything other than themselves. In as much as I am looking into the lives of others, I am uncovering my own and measuring my endurance. One of the men I have been exchanging emails with leading up to an eventual date has referred to my experiment as my “Dating Marathon”. I ran a marathon. Once. It was all I needed to know that I would not be running any more, and that I could have read the paper that Sunday morning while drinking tea and eating a Voodoo maple bacon bar and been just as satisfied with the use of my time.

This does not feel like a marathon. While it is long and requires stamina, I feel like I am gaining more from it than I originally predicted. I am more aware of my shortcomings, as well as my potential, and in this way, the potential of everyone I meet. I recognize that I put about twenty-five percent of my energy into my relationships, fearful that if I decide to put more energy into them, there will be no additional input from the people in my life. How much will I continue to hold back, dubious of reciprocation, until the amount of effort I put into my relationships consists of nothing more than a few messages sent via text and a couple of emails to people I am supposed to go out with in order to postpone the dates? Will I find myself at a table one night with my boyfriend, texting to someone else about how good the food at the restaurant was? Will I be more confused about my place in the universe, if I even possess one? Will I realize this was all just a process I undertook in order to distract me from more pressing issues, like the failing economy, swine flu, or the occupation in Afghanistan? Will I ever feel the need to put more than twenty five percent of my energy into any relationship I ever undertake?

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Date #5: Much Like Picking your Nose

2009-04-26T23:41:00.000-07:00

I was talking to my twin brother today about my latest dating experience, and he told me that dating is much like picking your nose; you keep digging, hoping for a winner, but all you ever really get is another booger. Now, I am not sure I ever hope for anything better to come out of my nose when I pick it, but I do think that the deeper in to this research I go, the more I come up with the same results.

My fifth date was with a man I was supposed to go kayaking with. The first time we set the place and time for the date, I fell ill and could not go. This time, we were to meet downtown and go to the Willamette to kayak around. I was excited. I had not been kayaking since I was in Alaska roughly ten years ago, so I thought it would at least be a good date in that way. Sadly, when my date showed up, let’s call him “Tom”, he was not in shape to go as he had been working hauling logs all week and had just finished hauling wood that morning. Instead we settled on driving through the Gorge and up to Bonneville Dam to look at the fish ladder. Much less to be excited about; especially if you live in Oregon and bring every freaking tourist who visits you to the falls along the Gorge. I might as well have gone on a date to McDonalds Playland; sounds like fun, but then you get there and all it is, is a bunch of screaming kids in large colorful tubes throwing balls at each other.

The first item of note regarding Tom is that he is older than me by more than 10 years. This in itself is not really that amazing; the fact that he acted like a man at least 10 years older than that was noteworthy however. Tom is handsome, white hair, ruddy complexion, and has the carriage of a man who is familiar with heavy labor; his shoulders slump forward slightly and his arms hang by his side as he walks. He picked me up in front of the Multnomah Public Library down town; we put my bike in his car, and went back to his house so he could clean up. He lives in a house in the west hills which he built himself; he is a home builder by trade and drove me past several of the houses he had built on the drive to his house. They were all impressively large, and he told me the ins-and-outs of how he came to build each one. As we drove, we talked of the possibility of going to a Mariners game in the future, which sounded great to me, as I love baseball. He told me that he holds season tickets with a group of people and he determined that picking games where you get a free bobble head of one of the players was the best value. I am a fan of bobble heads, so I could see his point.

We entered his house and the first thing I noticed was how gigantic it was. I asked him if he thought it might be too big for just one person to which he immediately replied, “No.” As I walked through the house to his back room, I recognized all the markings of a bachelor; he owned nice furniture, though none of it was arranged well, nor did it match. There was a beer bottle and a pizza pan out from the night before, along with several other pots and pans strewn about the kitchen. His house had a huge fire place and windows facing the trees and the wilderness behind. The view was beautiful, but there were no curtains or blinds to close to keep anyone from looking in. He had two or three huge sacks of bird feed on the floor in his kitchen nook; one was open with a scoop still in it. His mantle was made of stone and reached up to the roughly 20’ high ceilings, and on little stone ledges were old ceramic beer steins. There were crocodile heads on the floors, and on the stereo speaker: a fox pelt.

He told me he was going to go upstairs to clean up, and he put on some music before he went. It was the first indication that things might not go so well on this date; it was a New Country station. New Country is the worst kind of Country in my opinion. Why put on some music, which you yourself will not be able to hear, leave the room and not ask the person left to listen to the noise whether or not they like it? I personally am more of a heavy metal/hard rock fan, but I would never put this music on in the company of a perfect stranger without first asking if it was to their liking. As I looked around his living room, a song about marrying for money playing in the background, I saw the fruits of his trips to Safeco Field: at least fifteen bobble heads of different Mariners players were displayed on the mantle, shelves, and tables. It was hysterical. One sat in its box on a side table, waiting to be taken out and placed in a special spot next to its brothers. I looked around more and saw, on a stereo speaker, a picture of him and three hooters girls outside of a hooters restaurant set in a gold frame. This was getting more and more grim. Then he came back into the room wearing a flannel shirt, jeans and a black baseball hat with huge red and orange flames on it. Awesome.

As we drove to the Gorge we talked. Every time he began telling me something, he would introduce it by saying either, “I have a story for you” or “this is something you might find interesting” or something of that nature. He also started all of his sentences by saying the first word very loudly and then quieting down to a normal “inside voice” level by the end of the sentence. It was a bit disquieting at first, but I slowly got used to it. He had a bad habit of asking me questions and then not waiting for me to finish my answer before he told me what he thought, or if I tried to tell him something about myself, he would interrupt by pointing out some amazing geographical feature like the Willamette River. He told me about how much money he had to spend on rope for a job, (a dollar a foot, roughly), he told me about paying for a chainsaw in trade with some wood he had recently procured. He asked if I would ever want to go to Hawaii with him, as he had free housing there if he wanted it. He then launched into a story about how he purchased some Macadamia nuts while he was in Hawaii and got a free ukulele CD with them, which he just happened to have in the car, and then, yes, horror of horrors, he played. This was when it hit me: he had Grampa Syndrome. Grampa syndrome occurs in males of all ages, and is reflected in the way they treat money. A friend of mine has this same syndrome; once in our early twenties, as we sat and drank tea at a non-descript Starbucks Wannabe café, he asked me if I thought it was a good idea for him to save his tea bag for later. My immediate reply was, “of course, Grampa, why don’t you leave a dime for a tip on the table when we go?” Grampa syndrome is usually a life-long affliction; trying to train someone out of it can be very dangerous, and I highly suggest just steering clear of these people all together if you are not of the same mind. No amount of happiness is worth the price of having to hear all of the stories of great deals, free bobble heads or other amazing bargains for the rest of your life.

We arrived at the fish place and got out of the car. He brought an umbrella with him as it was perfect spring weather for Oregon: windy and rainy. Half way to the fish area, he decided he needed a heavier coat, reached in his pocket, pulled out a quarter and directed me to “feed the fish”. He went back to his car and I fed the fish, which was strangely enjoyable, especially when I threw in the pellets and created a feeding frenzy among them. He came back and we walked around the different ponds. At the Rainbow Trout area, he gave me another quarter for fish food. Sadly, as I turned the lever for the food, all of the pellets came out quickly and some of them spilled out onto the ground. I walked over to the pond and started throwing in the food. He then walked back to the machine and began to pick up each little pellet which had fallen out and fed the fish with those. I could not look, it seemed too ridiculous, and I knew if I had, I would have laughed. After going to see the 70 year old Sturgeon and the empty fish ladder, we decided to head up to Skamania lodge to grab lunch. The conversation had somehow turned to people we had dated, and I asked him what the largest age range had been between he and someone he was dating. He replied that he had dated someone who was twenty just last year. It ended up not working out though, not because of the age difference, but because she was crazy. Go figure.

We sat down at the pub-ish restaurant at the lodge and ordered. I ordered the burger, he ordered the pulled pork, and then asked the waiter what Gnocchi was, except he pronounced it “Ganache”, so there was a bit of confusion initially. After the waiter explained the Gnocchi and left, Tom asked me if I had ever heard of it. I told him that I had, and then I taught him how to pronounce it and told him what Ganache is. He said he felt stupid, but I assured him that our waiter had probably heard far more stupid things come out of people’s mouths. It was a pretty good lunch, but during our meal, he asked me a question about my brother which I had already told him the answer to on the way up. After I informed him I had already told him this information, he looked a little surprised. Then I told him that he was not a good listener. This information apparently did not surprise him at all. His response was basically, “yeah, I know,” and then it was kinda on to the next thing. I figured since we were being honest, I also told him that he rarely told a story that didn’t in some way relate to money. I recounted a few of the things he had told me, and then we got into a very stimulating conversation about the importance of money.

On the way to the car in the parking lot, he asked me what I thought the definition of a date was. I told him I didn’t really know, mostly because I knew he asked me in order to tell me what he thought. After he told me that I was not going to like his answer, he told me that a date is defined by a meeting of two people where the possibility of sex exists. I pretty much agreed with him. I asked him if he thought we were on a date, and he said yes. He then asked me, and I said yes. He seemed surprised by my answer, until I told him it wasn’t happening. This reply did not seem to surprise him at all.

On the way back home we stopped at the Pendleton Woolen Mill. Yet another amazing tourist attraction I have been to countless times with tourists. Tom was interested in getting another flannel shirt, as the ones he owned were of such good quality. While we were in there, he showed me one he was thinking about buying. It was orange and yellow. I asked him what exactly he was thinking, as he knew it was ugly. He said it was a great price, and he could wear it around the house or when he didn’t care about getting his clothes dirty, to which I replied, “Dude, don’t do that, there is no excuse for ugly clothing, no matter what the cost.” He settled on a black flannel on another rack. As we were walking around the store he offered to buy me a $10 sweater. I replied in the negative, but he kept pushing it. Even out into the parking lot, he kept asking me why I didn’t want a stupid sweater. Then, he let me know that all the other dates he had brought there had wanted one when he offered. I couldn’t hold it in, I just burst out laughing. He tried to explain that he didn’t take all of his dates there, just a few, but I just kept on laughing. I had been polite about the bobble heads, the hooters girls, the hat, the ukulele music, but this was too much. He had taken me on a date he had been on before with other women. It made me feel so very special.

After we left Pendleton, we started talking about the Mariners game again. He told me that he usually slept over for night games, and asked if would I want to do that. I asked if that meant we would be having sex. He said yes. It was very business like, no romance, no anxious feeling, no trying to casually brush my hand at any point during the date, no flowery compliments on my behalf. Looking back, I wasn’t really even offended; Tom rolled dispassionate, and by this time, I knew it.

We got back to my apartment and unloaded my bike. I took it from him, thanked him, and went toward my apartment. It had been my best date yet; but as I threw my bike on my shoulder and carried it up to my apartment, I had to admit, it still was not that good.

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Date #4: 15 minute man

2009-04-20T16:42:00.000-07:00

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Date #3: Five Food Guy

2009-04-11T21:12:00.000-07:00

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Date #2: A Date with a King

2009-04-11T20:16:00.000-07:00

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Date #1: Too Old for a Casual Attitude

2009-04-08T22:10:00.000-07:00

So, while I was traveling around craigslist, I found an ad that was hilarious. It basically described a man who had a whole list of what he didn’t want: girls singing into his phone, going crazy on him, or squirting into his mouth after he orally pleasured them. I thought this was hysterical, so I sent him an email and set up a date. Initially, it was kind of slow going to set up because I was so busy with all the idiots looking for the fabled stupid, young, big-breasted sexual dynamo I had advertised myself as. But we eventually set up a date for 7:30 am on a Sunday for breakfast. Yes, 7 fucking 30. He was going to see Wicked later that day and wanted to leave plenty of time. He told me that he would pick me up in his “beamer” in a chat session we had participated in earlier in the week. My response was that I would never stop laughing at him. He assumed it was because I thought it stereotypical that an Asian man would own a BMW, but I was laughing because he actually used the term “beamer”.

He picked me up bright and early, of course he awoke me first by texting me even earlier to find out if I was actually going to go out with him. I texted him back that I would after I got some more sleep. As promised, a little “beamer” pulled up outside my apartment, so I ran out and jumped in. I was wearing combat boots, a plaid skirt, and a blue top. He was wearing designer jeans which looked as though they had been pressed, a V-neck sweater, and very nice leather shoes. He also clearly had put more product in his hair that morning than I had used in mine in the last ten years.

His car was clean. I felt very awkward, so I decided to break the tension with sarcasm. I pointed out the fact that it was ironic that he drove a top-of-the-line BMW, though he was an environmental scientist. He tried to argue by saying that every part of his “beamer” was recyclable, but when I asked if he was planning on recycling every part after he was through with it, he confessed that was not his plan. Tension broken.

As we drove to the restaurant we spoke of the hypocrisies of life, whether or not having kids was a good idea, (he had them, I didn’t), and how he could never be a fan of the White Sox because they were in the same league as the Mariners. He talked about his divorces, I spoke of mine, we talked about food, sports, alcohol, and I found myself unusually comfortable with him by the time we arrived at the restaurant.

We sat down, and he told me he was on a fast and could only order certain foods. This amused me, as a good friend of mine had just completed a ten day fast, and by the end of it, had had murder in her eyes. His fast was to last for a month, but unlike hers, allowed him to eat. He ordered the oatmeal, I ordered the French toast with lots of syrup and a side of bacon. I am not the kind of person who will change my diet to make another more comfortable. So, as we sat there, we spoke at length about relationships and food. It was really a relief to me that he understood what good food is. There is nothing more depressing than asking someone what their favorite restaurant is, and the brainwashed, mutant of mediocrity offers up an answer like: “Applebees”.

As we spoke of what we were both looking for, it was clear he was looking for an LTR (long term relationship) and I was absolutely not. This was the part of the date that made the whole experience worthwhile. After I told him I was only dating casually, not really looking for a boyfriend, his exact words to me were:
“Aren’t you a bit old to have that type of attitude?”
Yes ladies and gentlemen, he did.

To which I replied:
“Dude, you are older than me.”

Yes, he was indeed six years my senior, and I thought, a salient point. But no, I had completely misconstrued his perspective, because then he said the thing that pretty much pushed me right over the edge:
“Yes, but I’m a man.”

This is it. This was not unbelievable, this was not even shocking. This was the attitude I had been picking up from most men on CL when they were being honest.

After we finished, he drove me home and of course requested that I have sex with him. When I refused, he went about trying to convince me that I in some way needed him. Sadly, he did not realize that he was talking to a woman who is pathologically independent. Probably one of the reasons I think dating casually is such a good idea.

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